


figuring it out

by SlytherinsDragon



Series: Holmescest Works [21]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: And I mean very slow, Discovery, Fluff, Healing, Insecurity, John is a Bit Not Good, Love Letters, M/M, Mutual Pining, Mycroft carries out a little brotherly justice, Mycroft is a little dense, Mycroft's Meddling, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Romance, Slow Burn, Touch-Starved, holmescest, learning how to love, unconventional love languages, will add tags later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-17 23:53:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29480241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherinsDragon/pseuds/SlytherinsDragon
Summary: After Sherrinford, the brothers avoid each other until Mycroft finds Sherlock in his kitchen.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & John Watson, Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Series: Holmescest Works [21]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1745683
Comments: 98
Kudos: 83





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyGlinda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/gifts).



> Just felt like writing something a little lighter than the previous story. Definitely the usual post-sherrinford angst is sprinkled into it with a little bit of misunderstanding, but it's mostly the brothers figuring out how to love :) More than likely the ratings will change for future chapters!

Mycroft lets out a deep sigh, realizing that he has nothing left to do. 

All the reports have been read, the daily paperwork had been dealt with and his five o’clock meeting had been canceled. Most people would be delighted at the unexpected extra hours of free time, but Mycroft has come to dread being idle. 

What is waiting for him at home anyways? 

No one. 

And nothing. 

The guilt and regret would certainly settle in. Thoughts of the Sherrinford catastrophe always lurk around like a second shadow. His missteps with dealing with both his siblings over the decades. The aberration that is his sister. How Lock had almost died to save them all from Mycroft’s silly blunders. 

The East Wind has been locked away for good. He had made sure of that. When Mycroft feels like torturing himself, he would pull up the feed to her cell. The image is always the same. Eurus would be sitting in her chair. Her hands folded. Head tilted downwards, staring listlessly at the floor. Looking harmless, but who really knows what goes on in her complicated brain? 

Mummy and Father continue to go see her biweekly. And Sherlock had gone too. Weekly first, then biweekly, then monthly and now… little brother hadn’t gone in at least three months. 

Mycroft had been jealous and upset. He had tempered down the feelings, as he had no rightful claim to them. Ever since they had gone to Sherrinford as a ‘happy’ family, he hadn’t seen Sherlock. Sherlock had never reached out to him. Mycroft hadn’t had the fortitude to intrude upon his brother’s life as he had done with thoughtless impunity once before. Anthea would alert him if Sherlock found himself in a situation of mortal peril but he hasn’t heard a peep from her. 

Baker Street is likely the paragon of domestic bliss at this time, if Mycroft has his deductions done right. 

Reluctantly, he tidies up his desk. Locking away classified documents. Shutting down his desktop. There is no use staying here, letting bad memories fester. He grabs his brolly, straightens out his twelfth-best suit and texts his driver. He walks out, wishing a grimacing Anthea who has been putting off a much needed dental appointment a tolerable evening. 

When he’s in the Jag, he pulls out his phone. He stares at Sherlock’s number, wondering if he should be the one to break the ice between them. 

No. He shakes his head. The wisest course is to be to let things be. Little brother seems to be living quite well without his influence and interference. 

Instead, he goes to his apps page, and hesitantly presses a dating app that Anthea had forced him to install approximately a week ago. She had set him up with a profile and told him in no uncertain terms that he is to look at five profiles at the minimum per day. Or she will make his life more hellish than it ought to be. Of course, she hadn’t verbally said it, but the threat had been as clear as day. 

So he does, skimming over the common goldfishes that London had to offer. He swipes away, pausing once when he sees that Sherlock’s detective inspector had made a dating profile. A decent sort of chap, but in Sherlock’s blunt words – utterly lacking in imagination. Bisexual then. Divorce finalized. He muses, before swiping to the next man. It at least keeps him entertained, as he deduced the potential character flaws of the goods on display. 

The Jag stops. He bids his chauffeur farewell and shuffles out of the vehicle, his feet hitting the mouth of his drive. 

It’s a nice autumn day. The sun shines brightly down, and the trees in the neighbourhood had taken on their colourful attire with hues of red, orange, yellow and green. A glorious day for a stroll around the local park, but Mycroft couldn’t be arsed. 

He hates legwork – remember? 

He frowns when he reaches the front door. 

Someone had been here. Had broken into his house while managing to prevent the system from sending him a notification. A visceral shudder goes through him, remembering that traumatic clown-ish prank that had preceded the events of Sherrinford. He closes his eyes and counts to ten, trying to regulate his breaths. 

Inhale. Exhale. 

Inhale. Exhale.

Inhale... Exhale. 

Gripping firmly onto the handle of his brolly, he opens the door. At first, he doesn’t hear anything, but then there are footsteps. Followed by silence. 

Shit. His intruder hasn’t even bothered to leave yet. 

Keeping to the walls on his right, he quietly makes his way toward the source. From the kitchen, he figures – feeling rather confused that this is where his unwanted guest had chosen to lurk. Now that he thinks about it, something smells awfully nice. As if someone is cooking in his kitchen, making a mouthwatering meal. His belly gurgles in protest, reminding him that all he had today was a measly salad that had clearly seen better days.

His jaw drops to the floor when he finally catches a glimpse of his housebreaker. If he’s not mistaken, the figure looks rather like his… brother. Unruly dark curls, his grey sleeves rolled up and an… apron? Black of course. And… he’s humming while layering fruit in a glass bowl, making a dessert that looks suspiciously like Mycroft’s favourite – trifle! 

What sort of terrible joke is this? 

Has he finally lost it after the horrors of Sherrinford? 

And then his desperate brain comes up with something inane.  _ It’s lovely to have someone to come home to. _ Mycroft wants to bang his head against the wall.  _ Someone who cared enough about you to make dinner. _ He cuts off his thoughts before they could wander into suspiciously disturbing territory. 

Sherlock freezes when he catches sight of Mycroft. Obviously, this hadn’t been part of Lock’s plan. To have Mycroft stumble upon him. It’s evident now that this isn’t the first time Sherlock had broken into his house to… cook. 

Good Lord. 

He had never noticed! 

Perhaps, Sherlock is right again. 

That he is slipping!

“You are home early.” Sherlock decides that an offensive move is a sound defense, utilizing his full height. “You weren’t supposed to be back until late!”

“Schedules aren’t set in stone. Goldfish are finicky. I am terribly sorry to disappoint you, brother dear. And how did you know –”

“I saw your schedule and planned accordingly.” 

“May I inquire as to what you are doing here?”

“Mycroft, that question is beneath you!” Sherlock huffs, before turning around, returning his attention to his trifle. Layering it with fruit, custard, biscuits and cream. “I am learning how to cook.” He says with a touch of annoyance, making Mycroft feel as if he is the interloper. “But since you are here, you might as well make yourself useful and set the table. Don’t forget to wash your hands.” 

Mycroft gawks at Sherlock, but his expression of shock goes unnoticed. Dumbfounded, he continues to observe Sherlock – unintentionally noticing the broadness of his shoulders and how they nicely taper down to his waist before giving way to his rather generous… posterior. Posterior?! He shakes his head. Could he sound any more repressed? No wonder Anthea is determined to get him laid. 

But this isn’t new. His interest in Lock’s body. 

Damn it. He had thought that he had outgrown this old attraction of his. 

Fuck. 

He opts to go as he is told. He can have this crisis later. It takes him a few to find what he is looking for after washing his hands at the sink. A fine tablecloth of matte gold with textures that made one want to run their fingers constantly against it. His best porcelain and silverware. He even speed-walks out of the kitchen, finding his vase with the synthetic flowers. Such a spread deserves a centerpiece. 

There is an amused smile on Sherlock’s face. 

“It’s just dinner, Mycroft. With your brother. Not the King –”

“We have a Queen –”

“Oh, whatever!” Sherlock waves his hand flippantly, uncaring of the aristocratic classes. Mycroft oddly suspects that Sherlock does this to try and get a rise out of him. For someone who had worked on so many cases involving the elite over the years, Sherlock must certainly know a great deal about the Peerage. Sherlock advises just a beat later. “If you want a drink with dinner, I suggest you go look for a red.” 

Just one glass. Mycroft tells himself as he surveys his rack of beverages. His drinking had gone out of control post Sherrinford, and it had taken him quite an effort to go dry. He can’t remember when is the last time little brother had been willing to eat with him (let alone a meal that Sherlock himself had made). It is certainly a moment worth celebrating. 

He decides on a Château Le Boscq – figuring that they are going to have something meaty. Perfectly fruity and oaky – and it will go brilliantly with whatever beef-based dish Sherlock has in mind. He brings back his bottle to the table, to discover that Sherlock had already ladled creamy butter squash soup into plain white bowls. There is an uncut Beef Wellington sitting on a platter and a plateful of carrots and parsnips glazed with honey. 

Sherlock passes him a corkscrew and he does the honours. Popping open the bottle and decanting the drink. A little for him, more for Sherlock. His brother nods when Mycroft passes him back his wine glass.

“Sit.” Sherlock says firmly, after Mycroft had poured his own. 

He does, and Sherlock grins crazedly when he picks up the sharp steak knife, and slices up the Wellington. Mycroft could hear his sigh of relief when the meat within came out a beautiful reddish-pink. Sherlock had obviously tried making this before and had fucked up in various ways. He gives the first slice away to Mycroft.

“Eat.” He gestures, waving the hand with the knife carelessly. At Mycroft’s expression, Sherlock’s face softens somewhat. “It’s not poisoned. I promise.” 

Mycroft does, using his knife and fork. It’s delicious. Heavenly. The pastry is perfectly crisp. The high-quality beef is both juicy and flavourful. He washes it down with a spoonful of soup, and he sighs with contentment. Even the carrots and parsnips are tasty. He reaches for the wine glass sparingly. Everything complements each other. It’s been a long while since he had allowed himself to indulge in something other than cheap takeaway and salads.

“Verdict?”

Mycroft could feel the tense coil of energy within Sherlock. This is not a date. He chides himself. Sherlock is evidently treating this as an experiment of sorts and is asking Mycroft for his opinion as he had done with other experiments conducted in his youth. 

“Delicious.” He helps himself to more. “But brother mine… why are you learning how to cook?” 

Sherlock is hesitant to say. Mycroft can see him considering making up a lie, but at the last second, Sherlock discards it and offers. 

“I heard the best way to a man’s heart was through his stomach.” Sherlock then shrugs, as if he had said nothing alarming. “Hudders likes to say that, so I thought – why not do an experiment?”

Okay. The second part sounds like Grade A bollocks to him. Wait, but what does Sherlock mean by – oh. 

“You are interested in dating someone.” The deduction hits Mycroft firmly in the gut. 

Sherlock’s cheeks actually flush. “Maybe. Let’s just say that I am… testing the waters.” 

Who is it? Dr Watson? The good old reliable Detective Inspector? His little mouse of a pathologist? Someone else that he had just met? A client? Another copper? 

It must be serious if Sherlock is trying this hard to learn how to… cook. 

“Well, brother dear, you could have made something simpler. And more economical. Like spaghetti. Or a roast chicken.”

“The fish I am trying to land has high-brow tastes.” Sherlock elaborates. “But he has a fondness for old English traditions.” 

“Oh.” 

That could fit him. And also many other men. Doctor Watson then. That would make sense, considering that Sherlock is hiding away from Baker Street to cook. Sherlock must want to keep it a secret then from his nearest and dearest. 

Ah, jealousy – it tastes bitter against Mycroft’s tongue. 

“I am… rather clueless about this dating business. I guess… since we are doing this… I was wondering if you could help me –” Sherlock appears rather sheepish. 

Mycroft jumps at the opportunity to amend the wrongs he had committed. Even if the process would likely tear him apart into little pieces. Or rather, his ‘small target’ of a heart. But what is of paramount import is securing his brother’s happiness. It’s the least he could do to atone for his grievous sins. 

“Help you ‘land your fish’? And keep it? Of course, what else is a big brother good for otherwise?”

Sherlock frowns a little at Mycroft’s words for a moment, making Mycroft wonder what is it that he had said wrong. But his brother finally starts eating, before saying a little awkwardly.

“I appreciate it, Mycroft. When can we start?”

Mycroft feels rather like he’s tumbled into an alternative dimension. “After we eat then. We can watch a movie together. That’s a common thing that goldfish like to do. There are some tricks that you could do to show someone that you are interested.”

It would be a good place to start. Mycroft is aware that Dr Watson enjoys watching movies in his spare time. Rom-coms, spy thrillers, documentaries – judging by what he had seen from the various bugs planted at Baker Street over the years. 

Sherlock takes a moment to compute this, and sighs. Evidently little brother is not a fan of the cinema.

“Fine.” 

* * * 

Stuffed full from the unexpected dinner, Mycroft leans back against the plush seat in his own personal home theatre. The trifle had been to die for, and Sherlock had let him keep the leftovers for tomorrow. The opening of one of his own favorite spy thrillers is playing on the expansive screen, building the suspense with old-fashioned techniques. He hadn’t watched a movie in a long time, considering his… recent personal baggage, and strangely he finds himself interested in this old indulgence of his again. 

Sherlock had already adopted the ‘I am bored’ look, and had crossed his arms. A few steps away from petulance. Mycroft catches him wanting to say something, but stopping just before the words leave his mouth. 

If this had been a real date, Mycroft would have been impressed (or rather touched) at the lengths Sherlock is going through to tolerate activities that his potential interest enjoyed. His brother lasts until halfway.

“God. What’s the point of all this? None of this would have happened if he had told him about the secret at the beginning! And it’s obvious that it’s going to end like –”

“Sherlock.” Mycroft grabs his hand. He says firmly. “No one likes to hear spoilers. Besides, the movies would be a lot less interesting if everyone behaves reasonably like that. And we both know that that state of rationality is rare in our world. Stupid things are happening all the time, even in the upper levels of diplomacy. Otherwise, we would  _ both  _ be out of a job.”

Sherlock gives him a wry grin. “Mycroft, if I wanted to experience such silliness, all I have to do is to take one of your cases.”

“Very funny.” 

“But still, why is going to the movies such a common date idea? This is tedious.” 

“Oh, Sherlock… the movie is not the main feature. It’s an excellent place to test how physical your date is willing to be. In a comfortable but dark environment. Slow and steady is the recommended approach.”

“Show me.” Sherlock says firmly as the scene in front reaches a violent climax. 

This is… somewhat awkward. Mycroft muses, as Sherlock sinks back down into his side of the sofa. It’s not like Mycroft has been on many dates. And his relationships had not been successes.  _ There is also the fact that you used to lust after your brother. Nah, who are we kidding, you still do. _ His brain so kindly reminds him and he slaps it away. 

He doesn’t do anything for the next minute or so, but his body is hyper aware of the presence of his brother next to him. He could sense the heat of Sherlock rather like a thermal-imaging device, and somehow, it’s getting warmer. He almost gasps when Sherlock’s thigh brushes against his. Reflexively he jerks away, as if burned. 

It seems that Sherlock had grown tired of Mycroft’s inaction and had decided to take matters into his own hand, having slowly traversed the healthy amount of space that had separated them earlier.

“Hmph. Am I not doing this right?” Sherlock grumbles. Somehow the miffed look on his face is oddly adorable, and Mycroft would have died to kiss –  _ No, Mycroft – don’t go there! _

“No, no. Your approach is adequate.” His voice sounds rather strained to his own ears. “Sometimes your mark –”

“Romantic, Mycroft.” Sherlock observes, his teasing voice lacking the venom that had been there pre-Sherrinford. 

“Well, considering your goal is to seduce some poor sod anyways –”

“Is that what you really think of me?” The smile abruptly vanishes off Sherlock’s face. His brother’s brows are furrowed, and Mycroft hates the despair in his voice. “That I am incapable of caring for someone else?” His brother stands up, just as Mycroft reaches for the remote and turns down the volume. He resists the urge to comfort his brother, deciding that it is more important to listen to what Sherlock has to say. “That I am just as heartless as our sister?” Sherlock laughs bitterly – and somehow Mycroft has a feeling that little brother hadn’t escaped Sherrinford unscathed. Or any of the other obstacles and traumas that Lock had endured over the last few years. “I know, I know.” Sherlock paces the floor in front of Mycroft. “Functional sociopathy. It’s in my medical files.” He gestures impatiently with his hand. “I’ve killed people. Let people die. Used people. Drugged and experimented on people… including you –” 

“Sherlock. Sherlock.” Mycroft interrupts just as Sherlock tears at his hair in frustration. “No. You. Are. Not. A. Functional. Sociopath. That’s not even a valid diagnosis in the DSM these days. But that’s not the point –”

“A well-renowned psychiatrist diagnosed me. An expert in anti-social behaviour.  _ You  _ sent me to him… all those years ago...”

“He diagnosed what he saw. You were so determined – brother mine –” Mycroft pauses, trying to put some words together to describe this complex situation. After Sherrinford, it seems that they can tackle the truths that Mycroft had taken such pains to conceal. There’s always a risk that Sherlock would hate him more (although the earlier activities of the evening point against that). Somehow after all that has happened, there are still tendrils of trust connecting them. Mycroft can only hope that with it he could salvage their relationship with what remains. He’s not a psychiatrist or a psychologist of any means, but perhaps he knows enough at this moment to help his brother through this existential crisis in a way that a licensed practitioner could not. Not that Sherlock would willingly see a shrink if Mycroft suggested it. But perhaps some understanding of the past could help Sherlock find happiness in the future. “To believe it. That you couldn’t feel. Empathize. To have the onus fall upon a psychiatric condition. You… acted out. But really…”

Sherlock sits back down. This time on the floor. He rubs at his forehead. 

“But really, it was better than the alternative. Your young brain – it decided that it was easier to –”

“God, Mycroft.” Sherlock interjects, looking troubled. “I repressed it all, didn’t I?” A rhetorical question. Victor had become Redbeard who had become a handsome Irish Setter. A representation of what had happened to Sherlock’s mind after the East Wind had torn through it with her unimaginable cruelty. “Over the past few months, brother, the echoes of memories bubble up to the surface. They seem hollow – more like impressions than anything else. As if… they belonged to a previous life –” 

“Before and after Victor’s death, Sherlock.” Mycroft says kindly. 

“I know.” Sherlock looks down at the Persian carpet, letting his fingers trace the weave. “I… I realized that I deleted most things related to my childhood. Well… not really deleted…” He chuckles. “It appears that I became very good at repressing things that I didn’t want to know. The memories that… hurt me. That… I couldn’t understand.”

“Yes, Sherlock. I think that is likely what happened. You were so young… But the door is open now.”

“Forced open.” Sherlock amends, as Mycroft fights an urge to run his hand through Sherlock’s curly mop – as he had done when Sherlock had been a child. 

Mycroft grabs his other hand tightly instead. 

“I… I’ve been doing a lot of thinking over the last few months.” Sherlock continues, looking away from Mycroft and the screen. “Trying to reassemble my memories. Went on a lot of walks. London. It’s too loud at times to think. Then I remembered that old Uncle Aldus had a cottage that he willed to me –”

Indeed. Mycroft is surprised. Their old sea-faring uncle had always been immensely fond of Sherlock, and had unfortunately passed during a time where Sherlock had spent most of his days as high as a kite. Where he had forgotten everything worth remembering in his childhood. But it’s hard to imagine his brother tramping about in Suffolk. Next to the sea. In peace and quiet. Sitting on a boulder in a lush garden left to grow wild after their uncle’s passing.

Mycroft manages the majority of his brother’s assets, including maintaining the cottage which had been aptly named ‘The Crow’s Nest’ for its position high up in the cliffs – overlooking the sea. A name that had always tickled a bloodthirsty young pirate’s imagination, and oh – how Sherlock had hung onto every word of the old seaman’s yarns. The legends that had been told had fueled little brother’s interest in piracy. Sherlock had no doubt contacted Anthea for access to the property, and she had done everything behind Mycroft’s back. It speaks more to Mycroft’s troubled frame of mind that Anthea hadn’t wanted to bother him with such a trivial manner. 

No doubt little brother had gone with his flatmate and his spawn. 

“I stayed there for days at a time. I felt closer… to my past there. I welcomed them all. Letting each memory settle into the vacant spaces of my being.” Sherlock sighs, seeming wistful. “What struck me the hardest is… not knowing who I am anymore. You were right, Mycroft – that Eurus was my maker. They say that the truth will make one free. And… it’s true. I felt unmoored. Unsettled. Discomforted. Like the earth had been ripped out from under my feet. I still do.”

“You are young, Sherlock. You have time to find out who you are. And I can tell you this – that you are not a functional sociopath. You care far… too much.”

“Caring is not an advantage.” Sherlock utters tonelessly. 

“Perhaps.”

“But you care regardless.”

“That appears so.”

“You support my inane quest.”

“I do, yes. I only hope you will be happy with whatever and whoever it is you choose to pursue, brother mine.”

“Then perhaps we could work on how to… make my affections known? Next time?” Sherlock’s voice is tentative. 

“If your man values tradition, the written word may do. Of course, you could always just say that you are interested… Men are simple creatures from my own experiences.”

His brother actually snorts at Mycroft’s observation, before getting up to his feet and brushing away imaginary lint from his  _ divine _ arse. “I will see you… next week? You don’t need to see me out, I can handle it.” 

“Till then, Sherlock. Till then.”

Mycroft could feel himself fall back into his depressed state as he watches Sherlock leave. It’s as if his brother had brought back the colour to his world, and had taken it away with him, leaving him surrounded by various shades of grey.

Next week couldn’t come soon enough.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has turned into a rather self-indulgent fic. :)

The weekend crawls by slowly. 

Mycroft resists the urge to install a bug in his own kitchen – to see when Sherlock would ‘visit’ next. Fortunately he doesn’t have to wait long, for he sees his brother back in his apron the following Tuesday. 

It had been a tiresome day, filled with meetings that had gone on for far too long and into the evening – dealing with the latest of silly scandals involving the Royals. Certainly it is one of those trying days where Mycroft would love to consider chucking out the entire institution of the overprivileged Royals without a second thought. 

There’s something lovely about it, seeing Sherlock being domestic like this in Mycroft’s own space. It instantly rejuvenates him, letting the rest of the tedious day fade away. 

Maybe in another life where they aren’t linked by blood, Sherlock would drop what he is doing and come to him. Mycroft would catch him by the waist and… 

He shakes his head firmly. 

These fantasies aren’t getting him anywhere. 

The table is already set. 

An Autumn’s treat. Lacy tablecloth, lit tall black-purple candles with strands of white wax running down their sides, a glass skull vase holding real flowers and two small pumpkins which sit on large white plates with scalloped sides, with his finest silver cutlery resting on the napkin next to them. On the kitchen counter, there is a wooden tray holding two types of cocktails. 

Seeing that there is nothing for him to do, Mycroft goes to wash his hands. Little brother is upping his game, and Mycroft finds himself hating himself for agreeing to this. Or rather hating whoever it is that Sherlock had taken a fancy to. 

Sherlock hasn’t even turned to greet him yet, so Mycroft walks over to his side of the table to sit. It didn’t do to irritate the cook, who had every power in the world to poison one’s food, or just simply spit in it. 

It takes him a moment to realize that there is a sheet of folded up creamy paper wedged under the vase. There are sunflowers in it – bright and cheery – that make Mycroft unintentionally smile. He pulls out the expensive paper, and unfolds it. 

In inky, spidery writing that undeniably belongs to Sherlock it reads:

__

> _I feel stupid for writing this, but I am tired of holding my sentiments at bay. I have taken you for granted, thinking that you would always be here.  
>  _
> 
> _ But life is fragile.  _
> 
> _ It can be blown away with one errant wind.  _
> 
> _ I yearn for you.  _
> 
> _ Long for you.  _
> 
> _ Desire you in every way one could desire another. _
> 
> _ But the years have created a chasm between that I am uncertain as to how to cross. I’ve been cruel to you, darling. You know best that I am not ‘sugar and spice and everything nice’, but that would be boring, wouldn’t it?  _
> 
> _ Nevertheless, you persist in my fantasies.  _
> 
> _ Your presence, I feel, is constantly with me. _
> 
> _ I dream of growing old with you in a paradise of our own making, dearest mine. _
> 
> _ I better end this before I bin it for how idiotic this all sounds.  _
> 
> _ I adore you. _
> 
> _ Your ‘Lock_

__

The words feel so raw. 

__

There is one terrific moment where Mycroft imagines that the intended audience for the letter is himself, but it all comes crashing back to reality when he realizes that it had been his suggestion the previous week for Sherlock to write a letter of confession for his beloved. No doubt Sherlock expected critique for this communication before giving away the letter.

__

“Something wrong?” Sherlock comes over, placing down two plates of spaghetti with meatballs dressed up as eyeballs and a basketful of crisp homemade garlic bread. 

__

“No.” Mycroft folds up the letter and tries his hardest to maintain his ‘poker’ face, handing it back to Sherlock. The words come up tasting like bile. “I think you can safely give it to the one you fancy.” 

__

Sherlock takes it. He asks carefully. “No suggestions, big brother?” Seeing Mycroft’s lack of input, he tries again. “How would you feel if someone had written you that?”

__

“It… it would depend on who it’s from.”

__

“Okay. So let’s say that it’s from the person you ‘fancy’.” Sherlock sits down after handing Mycroft the fruit punch meant to resemble a goblet of fresh uncoagulated blood. 

__

He sips at it. 

__

It’s non-alcoholic. A mocktail. Sherlock had deduced it then, Mycroft’s troubles with alcohol the previous week. He’s surprised that Sherlock hadn’t yet made a dig at his recent troubles with substance abuse, considering how many he’s made over the years at Sherlock’s expense. But perhaps that is why Sherlock picked at his eating – Mycroft’s innumerable diets – for it had been something that they had shared in common; the loss of control. 

__

“I… would be delighted.” 

__

_ Ecstatic. Over the moon. _

__

“I wrote it at the cottage. I went again this weekend. I don’t know, but it’s comforting to be next to the seaside. Hearing the waves. Smelling the salted air. Hearing the laughter of bygone years. It was cold, and a bit damp – but don’t you laugh – Mycroft – I had this impulse to lie down in the old garden. Looking at the sky. Watching the clouds float across. The wind making the long grasses tickle my face. It was unexpectedly… soothing. And I had the maddest thought –”

__

“What was it?” Mycroft is curious. 

__

And a little surprised. 

__

Sherlock had gone alone. That much is clear enough. 

__

“That maybe I would want to live there. Not now, not in five years – but maybe… a decade? Tend to the garden, learn how to sail the seas as the younger me had always wanted to do – maybe even… keep bees! Ludicrous, I know.”

__

“Did you… envision sharing your life with anyone in your… thoughts?”

__

Sherlock smiles an odd little smile before frowning. 

__

“Wouldn’t you like to know! I… highly doubt the one I am interested in would want to live in the countryside. He would find it… a waste of time. Boring, I think.” 

__

“You might be surprised. As we get older, tranquility becomes a much more attractive quality, little brother.” 

__

His brother shrugs, lifting the pumpkin cap by its rough stem from his pumpkin. It reveals a creamy sort of soup, rich in vegetables, a bit of sausage and bread crumbs. 

__

Mycroft does the same, and inhales the aromas before taking a spoonful of the enticing soup – inserting himself into Sherlock’s fantasy by the sea. 

__

Gods, would he like that? Living in the countryside? 

__

In his youth, definitely not. He had escaped the countryside with a desperation. But that would be of Eurus’ making, would it not? That the only person that he had wanted to see had forgotten him then. In all the ways that mattered. Deleted all the happy memories that they had shared so long ago. Treated him indifferently at best. 

__

It had hurt… so much. 

__

It had been easy then for Mycroft to don the mantle of the ‘Iceman’. The executioner. The one who made decisions without the trappings of sentiment or personal gain that had otherwise driven humanity. It had been safer not to care. 

__

But Mycroft had always remembered the agony, whilst Sherlock had rewritten his entire past (and even his personality) to avoid it. Mycroft had always loved his brother. This much was clear. And tried his best – with the minimal knowledge that he had had at the moments where Sherlock had needed help. Even though at times it seems that his meddling had only made things worse. That had irked him, that over the years – he could prevent the United Kingdom from collapsing upon itself, but he couldn’t undo the damage that Eurus had wrought upon them so long ago. 

__

“I didn’t get far in my daydreaming.” His brother’s voice washes over him. Mycroft could hear his smile without having to look at him. “I felt something strange touch my face. Velvety. Cool. And I looked up and I saw a shaggy highland cow looking down at me. It wasn’t very big, but it was rather… alarming. It could still trample me to death, so I stayed still and let it explore me. Interesting experience, being nuzzled by a cow. Eventually it moo-ved along.” Sherlock grins at Mycroft’s groan. “Turned out that someone nearby kept cows. And that was my Saturday afternoon.”

__

“Is that ice cream place we went to –”

__

Sherlock nods. “Yes. It’s run by the son now. The old man passed some time ago. It’s just as good as I remember it to be.” His tone turns nostalgic. “You bought me ice cream there, even when I was a petulant teenager.” 

__

Mycroft grabs some garlic bread while Sherlock has some spaghetti, getting some of the red sauce on his lip. 

__

Good Lord, he just wants to lick it off. Nibble at that divine cupid’s bow. Kiss – 

__

Sherlock interrupts. “Did you ever have an interest in dating – well… anyone?”

__

“When I was younger. Mostly flings abroad. Easier that way when there are people who delight in looking for any sort of scandal or ‘character flaw’ to bring me down. But you know… people…”

__

“I guess that we aren’t people?” 

__

“You know what I mean. We are different, little brother. Always have been, even before –”

__

“Eurus… she is different –”

__

“Indeed.  A natural genetic experiment that had gone too far.  But as we both know, she is utterly unfit for living out life in the real world. Mummy… well… she still has a delusion that she would be better off at home surrounded by family.”

__

Sherlock shudders at that suggestion. He shakes his head, muttering sarcastically. “It worked out so well last time.”

__

“I am just curious, brother mine – but why did you stop going to Sherrinford?”

__

“I decided that it wasn’t a good idea anymore.” Sherlock says, his eyes darkening with some emotion that Mycroft could not decipher. “I was confused after Sherrinford. A mess, really. It seemed easy enough, getting to play big brother for someone… but asides from our violins, I couldn’t reach her. And even  _ that  _ is questionable. How do you reach someone who doesn’t understand what it meant to love? Who had never loved? She understood possession. Jealousy. At the end, she tried mercy . She’s the epitome of ‘what use is intelligence if it isn’t tempered by affection’. But Mycroft – I want you to teach me something today…”

__

“What is it?” Mycroft asks.

__

“Teach me… about touch.”

__

He could feel his eyebrows almost fly off his face. “You’ve faked relationships before, Sherlock. Surely you don’t need –”

__

“My fake relationships were some of the most awkward interactions I’ve ever had with goldfish. I had to force myself to let myself be touched. It was… abhorrent. Yet – I suspect I am not adverse to being touched. I am not asking for much, Mycroft. Maybe a cuddle?” 

__

“Sherlock.” This is an offer made by a very tempting devil! He says firmly, feebly protesting an opportunity of a lifetime. “These are things you should learn with your lover. Not your brother.” 

__

“I don’t have a lover, Mycroft. I don’t know if I… ever will.” Sherlock’s tone becomes downcast. “There are very few people on this planet that I can tolerate. Let alone… trust. It’s true, I am interested in someone, but I don’t know if it’s worth the risk to even declare my interest. Because… I risk losing someone that I can talk to. Someone who… to a certain degree – cares about me.” He shrugs. “I’ve tried to show my affection, but I don’t think he takes it seriously.”

__

“Well, Lock – men are quite dense when it comes to sentiment. Regardless how smart they are. The easiest way to tell someone directly.” 

__

Sherlock adopts a pensive look, mulling over his words. 

__

Mycroft knows that his brother is still recovering from the old hurts that he had buried so long ago. If only he knew who it is that Sherlock is pining for! He could set up surveillance. Arrange for a chat. Gauge the mood. 

__

Hm… that wouldn’t be a bad idea. Schedule a little chat with Sherlock’s favourite doctor. Yes, he could do that. And if it’s not Dr Watson, he could move his way down the short list, of course. Get one of his agents to make a list of everyone that Sherlock interacts with. Little brother did after all mention that he’s shown affection to this person. That it is someone he’s known for years. So it must be someone that Sherlock sees with some regularity. Armed with data, he could at least have an idea on how to advise his lovesick brother. 

__

“Regardless.” Sherlock begins speaking again. “It’s not a guarantee. And… I would like to have some experiential knowledge on human intimacy before I pass into the ether. I know… that you have some affection for me, despite all I have done. My gravest sin… being forgetting you. Forgetting what you meant to me when we were young. But, I do want you to know that when push comes to shove… I’ve always trusted you, brother mine.” He then smiles. “There’s a trifle in the fridge for you. Coffee and raspberries –”

__

“You are bribing me.” Mycroft states as emotionlessly as he could. 

__

“It will still be there even if you refuse. But, Mycroft – I… I just want to know what it is like to be with someone I give a damn about.”

__

Every word Mycroft carefully files away for future revisitations. This is probably as close as he will get to a genuine ‘love’ confession out of his brother. That Sherlock cares. That Sherlock remembers what they had been. It would be a perfect experience to contemplate if their relationship ever goes south again. 

__

Something to hang onto. 

__

“Could we… start with a hug?” 

__

His brother is standing up, having cleared the last of his soup. Another boon to these dinners is that Mycroft gets to see Sherlock actually eat. And enjoy it. 

__

Too often had Mycroft taken an unwilling Sherlock to meals, only to have his brother behave like a petulant toddler throughout. With pointy diet-jokes and disdain for everything about the restaurant that he had been brought to. Regardless of how ‘posh’ it had been.

__

Feeling rather like he’s about to face his own execution, Mycroft slowly gets up.

__

“Oh, don’t look like you are going in front of a firing squad, big brother. I am not that ugly.”

__

Despite his words, Mycroft catches the momentary insecurity in Sherlock’s eyes. It is what finally breaks Mycroft’s resolve to avoid entanglement with little brother. Who is startlingly gorgeous to him. 

__

He holds his arms out – a welcoming gesture – and Sherlock gingerly approaches him. With care, he embraces his brother, taking in all the data he possibly could. To memorize the feel of him in his arms. His brother is tense, but gradually he becomes pliant, allowing Mycroft to bring him closer. His head lolls against Mycroft’s shoulder; his hair tickling Mycroft’s chin in a way that he could only describe as… right. It’s been so long since Mycroft had held (let alone touched) another in this fashion. His hand slips up from the curves of Sherlock’s back and gently combs through the dense curls, so soft and silky beneath his fingertips. His brother actually purrs in contentment. Happy to be held in such a way.

__

“Okay?” Mycroft asks him minutes later. 

__

“Yeah.” Sherlock turns his neck slightly, brushing his head against Mycroft’s neck. “Beyond okay. It’s different when it’s with someone you are with… voluntarily. That you… trust.”

__

“You could do this with –”

__

“Mycroft… please. Don’t. Just let me have this.”

__

The pain in Sherlock’s voice tears at him. Mycroft holds him tighter, gently rocking his brother in the middle of his kitchen. How touch-starved he seemed! Perhaps the Sherlock of pre-Sherrinford didn’t hold intimacy in high regard, aside from a motive in crime; probably had found it a nuisance more than anything else – but the young, young Sherlock of his childhood had been highly emotional. Had been a cuddly sort of creature demanding hugs and slipping into Mycroft’s childhood bed in the dead of night for comfort and company. 

__

It’s clear that Dr Watson and Sherlock do not do this sort of thing, and for the first time – he wonders if his deduction is wrong. His brother isn’t faking this; his reaction to being held for what is probably his first time in a willing manner. 

__

Moving his hand, Mycroft gently cups the angle of Sherlock’s mandible. His hand caresses his face, moving forward to his cheek. He lets a thumb rub ‘largo’ circles against one lovely zygomatic arch – which always appears to be too prominent – although this post-Sherrinford Lock looks healthier than his predecessors. 

__

Bone. Muscle. Skin. He maps the anatomy, adding the information to his reconstruction of Sherlock in his mind. It’s all too tempting to brush his lips against those curls or even his forehead, but Mycroft knows that someone as inexperienced as Sherlock would catch on to the truth of his feelings. 

__

His brother’s head leans against his hand. 

__

It’s beautiful to see Lock in repose like this. 

__

And suddenly he is immersed in it. Sherlock’s fantasy. 

__

Out in the lush overgrown gardens that Uncle Aldus had once owned. Holding Sherlock like this while the waves crashed down below the cliffs. Under the brilliant sun. The sound of a bee droning lazily onward, searching for the next bounty of nectar. Laughter while the kittiwakes soared high, high above them into the open sea. 

__

So carefree that it causes Mycroft’s chest to ache in a way that has nothing to do with pathophysiology.

__

It’s too much, and Mycroft finally releases his brother. Sherlock looks mildly unhappy to have his hug (cuddle) cut short, but he doesn’t complain. 

__

“It’s late.” Sherlock glances at the clock. Stepping away from Mycroft, as he had sensed Mycroft’s need for (self-preserving) space. “You have work tomorrow.”

__

“Give your letter to your lover, Sherlock. See if he’s willing to teach you… further.” Mycroft refuses to be diverted. “If you really do love someone, Lock – it is better to know the truth, rather than pine for years.” 

__

God. He would know. He had successfully managed to repress it for the most part, but it’s clearly… here to stay. 

__


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Mycroft has a meeting with John, and spends an evening with Sherlock at Baker Street.

_ Did you give him the letter? MH _

_ Yes. I did. SH _

_ And…? MH _

Mycroft looks up in his discreet little room at one of his favourite restaurants in London. It has been a long while since he had last dined here, having felt himself unworthy of his usual luxuries.  _ What is taking Anthea so long? _ He muses – wondering if like him – that his reliable personal assistant is slipping too these days. 

He sips at his mulled apple juice. 

_ Sorry, Sir, for the unexpected delay. I didn’t have sufficient knowledge to make the retrieval quick. Ax _

_ Target found and acquired. Ax _

_ ETA: 10 minutes. Ax _

_ Take your time, Anthea. It’s not like there is an entire country to keep afloat in the interim. MH _

_ Cheeky, Sir! Ax _

_ Perhaps I should cut you some slack for running behind schedule next time. Ax _

_ Appreciated. MH _

He flips back to Sherlock’s most recent text just as there is a knock at the door. The discreet waiter comes in, bearing his  _ Salade Maison,  _ a little cup of eel mousse, a plate of their finest cuts of sashimi and a tiny decadent glass bowl of osietra caviar. Mycroft nods his thanks as his appetizers are arranged thoughtfully within arms’ reach. He decides to start by picking up his fork and tackling his vegetables.

_ I don’t know, Mycroft. He doesn’t seem to think that I am serious. SH _

_ I am sorry to hear that, brother mine. MH _

_ Don’t be. I am clearly unloveable. And repulsive. Why did I expect my life to be any different than it was in the past? SH _

_ That’s not true, Sherlock. MH _

_ You are my brother. That’s different. SH _

_ Sherlock… MH _

He wants to offer comfort for his brother, but he doesn’t know what to say. A broken heart is a terribly tricky thing to mend. If this mysterious entity is indeed the ‘good’ doctor, he would love to take his hands to task and do a little… strangling. 

It’s been a long time since he had participated in such personal hands-on work as he despised getting his hands dirty, but for little brother… he would. 

_ I just want to go strangle him. MH _

_ Strangle who? SH _

_ Whoever it is that you’ve given your letter to. MH _

_ Who do you think I gave it to? SH _

_ I don’t know. Your flatmate? MH _

At that moment, there is another knock at the door. It’s different from the previous. A dull  _ thunk. _ It serves to give him a warning. The door swings open, revealing the same waiter from earlier and finally one of the most annoying men that Mycroft had the misfortune to meet. 

Dr Watson is exhausted, having been on call the night before in a busy and understaffed A&E in the outskirts of London. Irritated too, having been dragged here against his will by a persuasive Anthea. The bloody man should be grateful that Mycroft had not chosen one of his favourite cold and damp warehouses.

The flatmate is working today at a locum after having caught a few measly winks, likely doing a favour for a colleague who for some reason could not make it. The man blinks dumbly before glancing suspiciously around the innocuously-appearing room, letting his eyes finally settle on Mycroft. His thin lips are pinched with the customary annoyance that is characteristic whenever he is in Mycroft’s presence. Nothing new there. 

“Sit.” Mycroft demands, looking pointedly at the chair.

“What do you want, Mycroft?” The doctor drops into the chair, giving an envious look at the spread. “What did Sherlock do now?” He asks snappishly, obviously thinking the worst about his brother.  _ Drugs. Offended VIPs. Refused another case important to the wellbeing of the country.  _ The thoughts that float across his simple mind are easy to read. Before Mycroft can reply, he adds. “I do have to provide  _ alone _ for my daughter now, so I would really appreciate it if this can be quick. I  _ do  _ have patients scheduled.”

The waiter comes in again with his customary knock, bringing a paper dish of  _ Omelette aux Girolles _ with a side of  _ Salade Maison _ along with a cup of still water and places it in front of the flatmate. Anthea had warned him beforehand that the doctor had been cutting meat out of his life. 

“Eat first. Then we will talk.”

For once a grateful look crosses the man’s face, and he falls upon the food as if he hadn’t eaten in days. 

Mycroft enjoys his sashimi and caviar, continuing to openly deduce him like a specimen pinned under one of his brother’s microscopes. It’s obvious that Dr Watson still holds bitterness over his wife’s passing, even though it had been no one’s fault. And it’s likely that his bitterness stems from a bit of guilt. Mycroft knows about those indiscreet texts to Eurus in disguise. He had had to investigate everything that sister dear had done during her unauthorized visits to the outside world in the aftermath of it all. 

Does Watson still blame Sherlock for it? It is a common coping mechanism to shift the blame onto another (easier) target. And what more easier than a friend who wouldn’t ever fight back? Much easier to live with oneself in that fashion. Mycroft’s opinion remains firmly on the ‘good riddance to bad rubbish’ considering that his bloody wife had practically killed his brother and had gotten him so intimately involved with bloody Magnussen of all people, further complicating Mycroft’s already hectic life. 

When Dr Watson finally puts his fork down, Mycroft starts with an innocent question.

“How is my brother these days?”

The doctor knits his brows. “Alright. I think. From the last time I saw him –”

Strange. For two people that are supposedly living together, Dr Watson speaks as if he doesn’t see Sherlock on a regular basis.

“He hasn’t used, I don’t think. Mrs Hudson has been keeping a close watch on him. I know that he doesn’t handle a lot of cases these days. Spends his time thinking. Playing his violin... I know that Sherlock had gone off to Suffolk for a few days. And that he’s been going often. If this isn’t  _ Sherlock _ that we are talking about _ , _ I’d say he has gotten himself involved in a girlfriend based on our conversation. Why else would he be wasting his time tramping about in the countryside? Mycroft…” He pauses here, looking stern. His shoulders square. Ever the soldier. “I am not his nanny anymore. Aside from what I told you, I really don’t know what’s going on in Sherlock’s life. I asked him about it – moving back to Baker Street after all that nonsense with  _ your  _ psychopathic sister –”

It’s rather odious, how Dr Watson’s tone seems to convey that Eurus is all his fault. He can take the blame for Sherrinford, but Mycroft hadn’t brought her into existence. 

That special blame rests solely on their parents. 

“He said I could if I didn’t have anywhere else to go. But he wasn’t… inviting. I’d say – he said he rather felt lost. He did tell me that he needed a lot of space after what happened at Sherrinford. All the lost memories. Feeling like he had lived a lie. I…” 

Mycroft could catch what appeared to be a flash of anger in Dr Watson’s eyes. His opinion is conveyed clearly – that he had as much right to Baker Street as Sherlock did. They had argued then. The man’s lips tighten, unwilling to talk further about the situation. Did Sherlock get punched again? Fuck. He wouldn’t ever know. Sherlock would never tell. That explains it, that Sherlock lived alone these days. But he is glad that little brother has moved on from relationships that are no longer nurturing to him. 

“You hit him again.” Mycroft tries to put the lid on his own rising anger.

Dr Watson actually has the graciousness to flinch. 

“It’s none of your business.” He says testily, beginning to stand up. 

“None of my business?” Mycroft is aware of the frost in his tone. He picks up his napkin and wipes his mouth with it, before getting up himself. If anything, he will make sure that this pathetic excuse of a friend never hurts his brother again. “I think I’ve let this go on for long enough, Watson. Or should I say, John? You’ve always wanted me to call you that.” It comes out as a snarl.  _ Keep your cool, Mycroft. No need to lose it in front of this fool. _ “Some doctor you are, pummelling your so called best friend with your fists? What did Sherlock do this time? Have the audacity to say ‘no’ to you for something that mattered for the first time? Oh… what did you say? That your liar of a wife wanted it? For Holmes and Watson to be together once more? –”

“She wasn’t a liar. And you certainly never cared previously.” Watson takes a step forward, his legs as tense as a tiger about to pounce. 

“Oh? Did I imagine that entire incident where your  _ former  _ wife shot my brother over being blackmailed about her past? You – who decided to avert your eyes to the truth? You – who was all too eager to forgive your wife for all her deceits, and spared none of that compassion for my brother. Who had lied about his death to save your pathetic hide. I could tell you all sorts of things she’s done before she met you. Did you know she worked for Moriar –”

“Shut up! Fucking piss –”

The doctor swings at him, but unlike his brother – Mycroft has no qualms fighting back. He relishes it. In a matter of seconds, he has grabbed onto Watson’s wrist, and has him trapped against the wall, his upper limbs twisted painfully in Mycroft’s grip. 

Just a little more pressure, and he could snap bones. 

One by fucking one. 

“Let me go! You are hurting –”

Mycroft twists a little harder.

“Yell all you like, John. No one will hear you.” 

He smiles a little cruelly. He had invested money into the restaurant a long time ago. Equipped this private room with all the technology he needed to have ‘special’ meetings. This restaurant is well known enough that most foreign dignitaries are delighted with an invitation to experience its Michelin-standard cuisine and ambiance, yet flies under the radar enough so that it isn’t a crazy tourist destination. People have a tendency to drop their guards in here, giving Mycroft the advantage. This isn’t the first time a meeting has gone ‘physical’. 

“Once upon a time, John – you said that I wasn’t someone to be afraid of. But I guarantee you, that if you ever hit or touch my brother again – it will be your last. Do you understand?” 

The ex-soldier remains annoyingly quiet – stoically enduring the pain, so Mycroft applies more pressure until he can hear something crack.

“Fuck! Stop it! For God’s sake – I have a daughter. You can’t kill me, Sherlock would never forgive –”

“I don’t fucking care, Watson. I’ve had it with you. And your lousy family. Did my brother ever beg you to stop hurting him?” He doesn’t give the doctor the opportunity to answer. It’s rhetorical, and whatever he has to say would have pissed Mycroft off further. “Pathetic. I should have done something the first time you struck him. Back when he returned from Serbia. Did you know that you opened the stitches on his back? After he had been tortured!” Mycroft had been furious when Sherlock had had to go get those wounds stitched up again. “And even if I don’t kill you, there are many ways to break a man – and wouldn’t you like to know how I would ruin you?” Mycroft chuckles darkly, briefly running over the various scenarios which all bring a little shudder of joy. “All you can do is pray is that you would never find out.” He shoves him against the wall once more, causing his head to clatter loudly against the wall. With disgust, he says. “Now get out of my sight.” 

He lets go slightly, and the coward is off running. 

Humming happily – having finally dealt with a problem that had bugged him for a long time, Mycroft returns back to the table and takes out his phone again.

_ Mycroft. You are slipping. I live alone. SH _

_ You’ve stopped spying on me. SH _

_ Yes. You acquitted yourself quite well at Sherrinford. It seemed to me that my interference caused you more grief than not in your life. MH _

_ You know Sherlock, the best way really to tell someone that you love them is to tell them directly. Did you try that? MH _

_ No. I am afraid it would only lead to more mockery, Mycroft. Am I still welcome in your house? SH _

_ Of course. But, little brother – why don’t I come to yours, for once? MH _

_ Fine. SH  _

_ Today? Or is that too soon? MH _

_ Anytime. I am used to you showing up at your convenience. SH _

_ Fine, I will come around to Baker Street after work. MH _

_ I will see you then. SH _

_ And Mycroft… you would find it very difficult to strangle your intended target. SH _

Shaking his head at his brother’s cryptic text, he presses the call button on the table, signalling for the waiter to bring him his next dish. Veal with white truffle oil. He hadn’t wanted to spoil his main course with that damned doctor present. He will forego dessert, considering that Sherlock would make him something sumptuous. He had so loved that coffee trifle that Sherlock had made him; he had eaten half of it the very next morning before realizing what he had done.

Hopefully – at the very minimum – he could bring his brother some semblance of comfort with his presence.

***

Mycroft is oddly nervous (and giddy) when he mounts the seventeen steps to his brother’s humble abode. He had actually gone home first to freshen himself up. To change into something a little bit more casual for the evening. A soft cashmere turtleneck. A fresh pair of trousers. He had debated whether or not to buy flowers on the way, but had decided not to. It would make things way too obvious.

It seems that nothing has changed since he was here last. As if time had stood still. The fourth step still creaks. The place still has its musty odour, with a distinct note of the landlady’s potent herbal soothers. 

He knocks despite owning a key. 

_ Rap-tap-tap.  _

“Hello, Mycroft.” 

Sherlock opens the door immediately, unlike the days of old where he would wait it out, hoping that Mycroft would go away. 

His brother takes his brolly and jacket, hanging them on the antique coat stand. 

Surprising himself, Mycroft hooks his arm around Sherlock’s waist and hugs him. It’s only been a few days since he had seen little brother last, but the hours in between had passed so slowly by. 

Sherlock exhales in surprise, letting himself be embraced in this fashion. 

“I am sorry the letter didn’t work.” 

“Don’t be. That’s life. Full of disappointments.” Sherlock sighs, sounding rather forlorn. “John was here at Baker Street a little while ago, picking Rosie up from Mrs Hudson. He didn’t even come upstairs to say hello. He usually does.” 

“That’s too bad.” Mycroft says, patting his brother’s back a little awkwardly. It wouldn’t do to know about the altercation the two had had months ago. Or that it was his doing from earlier in the day that had caused the doctor to avoid his brother. “You deserve better, little brother.”

Sherlock buries his face against Mycroft’s shoulder, inhaling deeply. 

“You never liked him.” 

“No, I can’t say I did. He had a good influence on you at the beginning, but…”

“I know. Lestrade and I had a talk a couple of months ago. He was… concerned. But… John is still my friend… he was there at a time where I had no one. And… I don’t know. When he was drifting away from me when I came back from Serbia…” Sherlock’s tone becomes agonized. 

“Sh… it’s okay. Come on.” Mycroft gently grasps his brother’s hand. “It’s not your fault. It was… never your fault.” He sniffs the air. “Something smells good. Chinese?” 

“Yeah.” Sherlock goes willingly, following Mycroft into the kitchen. 

“But I am relieved that you don’t have the hots for John Watson.”

“The hots! Really Mycroft?” Sherlock throws him an incredulous look, laughing despite himself. 

“Made you smile.” Mycroft finds himself grinning. “Made you laugh.” 

Somehow managing to accomplish both of these things gave him a thrill even greater than lunch had provided.

“You are ridiculous!” Sherlock throws up his arms in exasperation. 

Ah… always so dramatic, his Sherlock.

His brother throws on an old apron that used to belong to his landlady, with the faded front bearing ‘Do Kiss the Cook’ in curly writing. He had left his more ‘manly’ apron back at Mycroft’s. Seeing that ordinary garment hanging in his own kitchen had brought a silly smile to Mycroft’s face whenever he had caught sight of it. 

The kitchen table is the neatest Mycroft has ever seen it, with a translucent bowl patterned with colourful lotuses holding three small candles which bob gently in the waters. Wooden chopsticks rest on porcelain holders. Two bowls of handmade dumplings sit next to them. 

_ He should have bought the flowers.  _ It would have complemented the table. It would have been the very least he could have done.

He walks into the living room. It’s obvious that Sherlock lives alone now. His knick-knacks are scattered all over the place. There are newspapers on the coffee table, a set of fresh slides next to the microscope and a few grisly pictures of some corpses – signs that Sherlock has been working at his job in the interim. 

Mycroft makes it to the fireplace, where the familiar skull grins cheerily up at him amongst the curios that Sherlock had accumulated over the years. Haphazardly thrown behind it is a familiar folded up sheet of something creamy – and he realizes at once that it is the same paper that Sherlock had written his love confession on. 

Did his love return back the letter? 

Thrown it back at him without a single care? 

For some strange reason, Mycroft feels drawn to it, and he picks it up – savouring the texture of it with his fingers. He doesn’t unfold it, but rather tucks it into one of his trouser pockets. Evidence of sentiment from Lock is precious, and it deserves better than this careless home on the mantel. 

“Mycroft.” Sherlock has come to find him. “It’s time to eat.”

His voice is quiet. Gentle. With that undercurrent of pain that Mycroft had felt during the texting they had done earlier. 

That longing. 

Seeing that Mycroft hadn’t moved, Sherlock reaches for him, letting his hand touch the area just above his elbow, sending a frisson of  _ something  _ shooting up his nerves. It almost makes him jump, but he lets Sherlock guide him back to the kitchen. 

The lights had been dimmed, the candles lit and the rest of the dishes had been laid out. Perhaps Sherlock had intended to share the meal with his beloved tonight, and seeing the rejection, he had opted to share it with him instead. 

Not that Mycroft is complaining. 

“Won’t you tell me who it is?” Mycroft finds himself asking, not relishing having an interview with everyone involved in Sherlock’s life.

Sherlock gives a curt shake of his head with an accompanying gesture of his free arm. 

“It’s irrelevant, Mycroft. I will get over it. Isn’t it what you said so long ago? All hearts are broken. All lives end. Or something like that?” He laughs weakly. “I am surprised that you haven’t mocked me for falling for someone I cannot have. It is what it is. Sit.” 

Mycroft does as he is told. There is a plate of large generously stuffed spring rolls, shrimp stuffed aubergines, pastry puffs and egg tarts. All things that he liked to eat on the occasion he ate dim sum. It’s obvious that Lock had spent a lot of time making everything from scratch. A labour of love; he knows that in Asian cultures – especially the Chinese – food is  _ the _ love language. A fondness rushes through him just as Sherlock brings two saucers which smell deliciously spicy with its characteristic Sichuan pepper for their dumplings and spring rolls. 

“Lock.”

“Yes, Mycroft?” 

“You didn’t have to do all of this.”

“I want to.” Sherlock’s voice is hushed. “I’ve got years worth of bad diet jokes to repay.” A wry sort of smile appears on his lips. “I know how much you love food. Someone might as well be happy when the evening is over.”

They eat. 

Mycroft mulls over Sherlock’s words. 

For drinks, there are mugs of slightly sweetened soy milk. The dumplings remind him of trips to China, filled with pork, veggies and a hint of shrimp – the sauce adding the perfect edge of spice. The most delicious of which had been made tirelessly by hand by old ‘aunties’ at the crack of dawn. 

Neither of them will be happy at the end of the evening if things go like this. Mycroft’s belly would be, but that’s about it. 

He wants to remove the aura of melancholy that surrounds his brother. But how? 

“Mrs Hudson told me something peculiar earlier. Before she left for her weekly game of bridge.” Sherlock picks at his dumplings, evidently having minimal appetite. 

“Did she?” 

Mycroft has an inkling of where this might be going. He forcefully staunches the feeling of dread that threatens to course throughout him, trying to maintain his facade of normality.

“John’s right forearm was in a splint when he went to pick up Rosie this afternoon. He refused to talk about it when Mrs Hudson inquired. She suspects foul play. I was wondering if you knew anything about it?”

“I didn’t even know you lived alone until today.” Mycroft shrugs, continuing to eat. This time, nibbling on a fluffy pastry stuffed with juicy and slightly sweet pork. He couldn’t help himself but let the next words slip. “Sometimes… what goes around, comes around.”

“You… you talked to him. God. How I hate that sentence!” Sherlock puts down his chopsticks, looking miserable. “John said it when Lestrade and I were talking about you after Sherrinford.” 

It hits little brother then. “You broke his arm.” The lack of emotion in Sherlock’s words is what scares Mycroft the most. “You… threatened him.” 

“It was not my intention to sully my hands, but he took the first swing. I only wanted some information out of him, about how you were faring.”

“It wasn’t enough… to see me?” 

“He beat you again –”

“That was months ago, Mycroft. We are good now.”

“Are you sure? He was utterly unremorseful when I talked to him. Threw out every rubbish justification for every punch he had thrown at you. I am sorry Lock, I never liked him. I saw his files from Afghanistan and it's long been evident that he has anger issues.”

“Mycroft.” 

Sherlock stands up and Mycroft rues that he had managed to spoil the atmosphere once again. His brother starts stacking up the finished plates and bowls with unnecessary aggression, while Mycroft helps himself to one last egg tart. _Is he going to kick him out?_ _For damaging his nearest and possibly dearest?_ But his next words make Mycroft sigh in relief, even though there is an odd tremble in Sherlock’s voice. 

“Don’t apologize. I… I can’t believe you did that. For… little old me.” 

His brother is biting at his lower lip; an old habit that an unfathomably young Sherlock used to have. Somehow his mind finds it adorable, and before he knows it – Mycroft is on his feet. An arm curls around Lock, bringing him ever so close. 

“Someone should have done something ages ago, Lock. I am only sorry I hadn’t put him in his fucking place sooner!” 

“Language, Mycroft.” 

“Sod language!” 

Says Mycroft, the lover of verbal wordplay. Sentiment makes one do utterly ridiculous things. He cups his brother’s cheek, tenderly freeing the abused lip from the teeth. 

“Mycroft…” The quivering in his voice is back. “Please… don’t.” 

He says when Mycroft gazes into his orbs of blue-green-grey. Sherlock jerks away, and Mycroft could feel something in him tear – leaving a sense of visceral pain behind. Oh Lord. What did Sherlock see in his eyes? The sentiment he had spent so hard burying? 

“Sherlock, please. I just want to help you.” 

“I can’t.” 

“Sherlock… I-I do care dearly for you, little brother.” 

His brother freezes at his words, and Mycroft wants to kick himself. Did Sherlock really think that Mycroft didn’t care about him over the years? Carefully he reaches for Lock and pulls him closer. Catching that mixed scent of hair products and the cologne that his brother had always preferred. Sherlock lets him hug him again, his body sagging against him like a ragdoll after a minute had passed. His brother’s arms cling tightly around him, and it makes Mycroft wonder when is the last time little brother ever had someone touch him in a kindly manner. 

Mycroft has no idea how long he stands there, just supporting his brother. Feeling utterly at sea. He eventually guides his brother to the couch, and he sits down, letting Sherlock’s head rest against his lap. His fingers lightly comb through the recently washed curls, and he realizes that there is a dampness to Sherlock’s face. Wisely, he says nothing – just wondering what it is that Lock is thinking about. He just hopes Sherlock isn’t crying over some worthless man. 

“My…?” Sherlock’s tentative voice brings him back.

“Yes, Lock?” He returns the favour, at least managing to finish the bloody syllable. 

“I don’t want to be alone anymore.” 

“You aren’t alone. You are  _ never _ alone.” Mycroft soothes. 

“I just want… someone to be there for  _ me. _ Not for an…” Sherlock grimaces. “An idealized self of me. John thinks I should behave a certain way. Always warning me off with his ‘a bit not good, Sherlock’. Molly wants me to be this… ugh – dark, brooding, misanthropic paramour that only she can love and tame –”

“Say no more.” Mycroft shudders. “I understand. I understand… completely.”

“Am I putting you off, Mycroft? The last thing I want to do is scare you away with my… neediness.” 

“God. No. No, Lock – you could never. What is it… that you need?”

“It’s what I asked you for last time.”

“Intimacy.” 

Sherlock nods as Mycroft continues to play with his curls, sighing happily when he applies a bit of pressure against his scalp. 

“What do you expect to get out of this, little brother?” Mycroft asks curiously, when the real question he wanted to ask had been how far is Sherlock wanting to go with this experiment. 

“I… I really don’t know. This is… not my area.”

“To be honest… it’s not mine either.” Mycroft acknowledges. “Tell me, Sherlock – what is it that you feel inclined to do?”

“I like being hugged. Cuddled. As we have done. I like what you are doing now –” He sighs when Mycroft gently tugs at an errant lock. “I think at the moment… I just want to be with you.”

“That would be amenable.” 

Mycroft smiles a little, wondering if Sherlock is using him as a distraction. Not that he would mind; his sense of self-preservation when it came to Sherlock had always been minimal at best, although he did have to draw a firm line at the drugs back so long ago. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where there is a case.

“Someone is a little nervous.” Mycroft says amusedly when the board buzzes, causing Sherlock to drop the butterfly.

“I am not.” Sherlock says firmly, returning the piece back into Cavity’ Sam’s belly for Mycroft’s attempt. “It’s been awhile, hasn’t it?”

_ It has. _

Mycroft can see them situated like this so long ago. Sizing each other up from their respective armchairs. When Sherlock had returned from Serbia. Looking gaunt and miserable. Attaching himself like a limpet to one unworthy doctor. 

Lonely. 

Mycroft takes the tweezers and extracts the butterfly and the broken heart – musing that at least this time, it appears that he can handle the fragile organ. A premonition – maybe? 

But the look of concentration from Sherlock’s end is rather adorable. Did Mycroft notice  _ that _ last time? Probably not. There had been a matter of a critical terrorist threat to deal with previously. Now there is no case. No threats. And no Watsons underfoot. Just himself and a willing Lock who is sitting next to him. 

So close that their thighs are touching.

“Still lonely, brother dear?” Mycroft asks after Sherlock takes out the last piece without fanfare. 

“No. I don’t think so. But I will be when you…” Sherlock starts packing up the  _ Operation _ board – looking bashful and reluctant to finish his sentence.

“It’s alright. We will see each other again. Soon.”

“I’d like that.” Sherlock smiles – the largest one Mycroft has seen all week. “It’s almost like – a date.”

“A date?” Mycroft chuckles lightly. 

Yes, he would really much like this to be a date. For a non-date, it is easily one of the most enjoyable evenings he’s ever had. Food, cuddling and a board game for afters. It’s interesting how much happier Sherlock looks compared to when Mycroft had first seen him. 

_ Is there really another man? _ Or did Sherlock have ulterior motives? And… why did it matter so much to Mycroft? 

“Yeah. A date. You know – where two people go have fun with each other. Or at least – that’s what John told me. Although… watching the movie wasn’t very fun for me.” 

“I would define it as where two people get to know each other better. I’ve certainly been on dates that were absolute rubbish.” 

“Goldfish, Mycroft?”

“It was when I was much younger, Lock.” 

_ When I was trying to get the image of you out of my head. But fucking goldfish had only reinforced the incandescence of Sherlock.  _

Ah, they had breached this subject too when they had played  _ Operation  _ last, and he had demanded that Sherlock change the topic. 

But now – since Sherlock genuinely wants this knowledge, Mycroft would share. “No, Sherlock – there are no goldfish in my life except for the ones I deal with at work.”

They both jump a little when they hear the sounds of loud knocking from downstairs.

“Good god, what is that?” Sherlock springs up from the couch.

Before his flighty brother could dart away, Mycroft stops him by holding onto his hand firmly. Wanting reassurance that there would be more time for them to spend together.

“Before you go, I take it – that you want more?”

“More what?” Sherlock asks, bemused.

“Another ‘date’ for your study in intimacy.”

Sherlock beams. “Oh god, yes!” 

Mycroft darts forward, brushing his lips as sweetly as he could against Sherlock’s cheek. His brother’s eyes widen. Surprised. Stunned. And yet… pleased. There is the most delightful of blushes delicately colouring his pale cheeks. 

Maybe his theory that the other man doesn’t exist has merit. Hm...

“It’s customary to kiss goodbye if the evening is a success.” Mycroft says just as the knocking grows more incessant. 

“We will text.” Sherlock gains control of his senses. 

Mycroft opts to stay in the flat when Sherlock runs down the stairs. He wonders what he plans to do with Lock. He wants to plan the next ‘date’, and get more data about where this is going… exactly. Remembering the dirty dishes in the kitchen, he goes there, and plays dishwasher. 

“Lestrade!” Mycroft could hear Sherlock exclaim from all the way downstairs. “What are you –”

“God, Sherlock – there’s been a murder, and I’ve been trying to reach you for all evening!”

He can’t hear the rest of the conversation, as the running water drowns it all out. But then he could hear a flurry of footsteps ascending the stairs quickly, and he catches sight of the Detective Inspector sprinting for the loo with a bag in his hand. He’s covered in dried mud from head to toe… what did the man do – jump in a swamp? The copper doesn’t see Mycroft at all, and Sherlock is soon back with a mirthful grin on his face.

“Donovan knocked him into the mud.”

Ah. It had been raining cats and dogs earlier. 

“Accident, he says.” Sherlock muses.

“Should you not be deducing the murder? Rather than critiquing the slapstick comedy provided by the local force?” 

Sherlock ignores his quip. “Thank you for washing the dishes.” 

“Should I… go?” Mycroft looks at the few dishes that he has left.

Sherlock gestures for him to leave the sink. “Your presence in my flat isn’t exactly… unexpected.”

Mycroft looks pointedly at the kitchen table which is laid with the finest of tablecloths and the bowl of candles, still lit. Lestrade would certainly know that something is up with that quality of evidence.

“I do concede your point, big brother. I think this case will consume my weekend at the minimum, but I won’t forget about you.” Sherlock moves over to the fridge and pulls out a bag. He hands it over to Mycroft. “To tide you over.”

Mycroft can hear the sounds of the shower running, so he leans over to peck his brother on the cheek just one more time. Somehow, he just doesn’t want to leave. There is an intrinsic pull that seems to want him to stay within Sherlock’s magnetic field. Those iridescent eyes are looking at him. Scrutinizing him. But when he catches Mycroft noticing him staring, they soften immediately. 

“Good night, brother mine.” Sherlock leads him to the landing, with his hand once again at Mycroft’s elbow, threatening to melt a hole through the cashmere. 

***

_ [Sherlock is at the morgue.] _

Mycroft swivels the discreet little camera that had been installed eons ago from the comfort of his desk at home. Next to him sits a plate of Sherlock’s dumplings that he had pan-fried to a perfect crispy golden-brown. He picks up his chopsticks and eats one after dipping it in a mix of soy sauce, vinegar and spice. 

_ [Ms Hooper looks up, her face darkening when she catches sight of his brother. Her hand – the one holding the scalpel – shakes, before she plunges it with much force into her victim’s chest.]  _

_ [The Detective Inspector walks over to her. They chat while Sherlock has his hands in his pockets, looking anywhere but at the pathologist.] _

Mycroft still cringes at that silly little game that Eurus had played – did she really believe that Sherlock had feelings for that little mouse? Or did she aim to wreck every last relationship that Sherlock had had? She had tried to drown Watson at the well. Symbolic, considering what she had done to Victor – but wait – isn’t that the crux of it all? 

Why Sherlock had been so desperate to cling onto the doctor when he had returned from Serbia? That somehow, in some twisted way – he had unconsciously remembered Victor. And in doing so, had made him want to keep the ex-flatmate in his life at all cost? 

_ [Now they are staring at another cadaver that Ms Hooper had pulled out. Sherlock hasn’t yet spoken a word to either Lestrade or her. He glances over at the victim, adopting that thoughtful expression on his face. The body isn’t exactly in great shape, having been dredged up from some body of water. Presumably where the copper had had his run in with the mud earlier. It didn’t smell great either, considering the periodic wrinkling of both Lestrade and Hooper’s noses. There is a fantastic penetrating gash through the man’s abdomen – and Sherlock points at it, and starts to make his deductions.] _

_ [Afterwards, Sherlock is talking to Hooper now, gesturing almost violently with his hands.] _

Oh. The man had been killed with a harpoon. And it appears that little brother wants to run an experiment with cadavers and… harpoons. If only if he had audio! This had dramatic potential judging by the way the mousy woman bites her lip and how she stands up straighter having already made her decision to deny his brother’s crazy request. 

_ [Sherlock passionately makes his case. The pathologist gives a curt shake of her head – somehow managing to say ‘absolutely not’ with her entire body. And then Sherlock points to her belly. Presumably making a careless comment about weight gain.] _

Mycroft can’t quite see her face, but from his side-view he could tell that it pisses her off. Oh Lord – she’s… pregnant. Sherlock’s horrified expression clinches this particular deduction.

_ [The pathologist is stepping forward. Sherlock is stepping back. In the background, Lestrade is trying to make himself invisible. Looking for an opportunity to disappear from the room without being noticed.] _

Little brother could only be so fortunate that she had left the scalpel back on the autopsy table. Damn it! If only he could hear! He could tell that Sherlock is speaking – trying to calm her down, but it’s evidently not helping. And then a gloved hand that had handled the bloated corpse collides harshly with Sherlock’s cheek. 

Mycroft doesn’t need audio to hear  _ that. _

_ [The slap stuns Sherlock. Hooper says something and storms away. Lestrade catches Sherlock’s eyes. Both looking as if they had just escaped some traumatic event. They bolt immediately from the morgue.] _

Well, that certainly ruled out any interest in Ms Molly Hooper. Sherlock had already said multiple times that the one that had captured his heart is male. As much as he feels badly for Lock, if she had slapped him for a weight joke – Mycroft does feel a peculiar sort of sympathy for her. 

Besides, who had impregnated her? Another mystery indeed! Considering that she isn’t married, and the last time he’s bothered to check – she is still single. 

Indeed, this is soap-opera levels of drama.

***

_ Your murderer has fled the country. MH _

_ Damn it, Mycroft! SH _

_ You are spying on me again! SH _

_ Only with the purest of motives, Lock. MH _

_ You’ve been up for days. And nights. It’s about time you rested. MH _

_ If you know so much, where is he? SH _

_ Gone to Reykjavik. Whaling expedition to lay low for the next little while, considering that Britain has put a moratorium on whaling in 1986. My agents will watch him and send him into Lestrade’s custody when he steps back into the country. MH  _

_ Mycroft. You know I don’t like people solving my cases for me! SH _

_ I manfully kept my mouth shut and my fingers quiet until you reached a point of futility, brother dear. I do have to say that watching you spear pig carcasses shirtless was quite a sight. MH _

_ Mycroft! Did you send your minions to follow me around? SH _

_ On the contrary, little brother, I used my extensive bug and CCTV network to solve the case. And of course, the governmental databases. Cairns worked with the victim before on the Sea Unicorn. He witnessed him murder another man by shoving him overboard a long time ago. As you had rightfully deduced. MH _

_ The victim was not innocent either. He was a blackmailer. Heavily in debt. SH _

_ The only cure for blackmail is a shot to the head. Or in this case, a harpoon through the gut. Don’t despair, little brother, I would have never figured it out without your tireless legwork. MH _

_ What should I do? SH _

_ Come home to Baker Street. You can text Lestrade about your conclusions tomorrow. MH  _

_ It’s the middle of a Thursday! Are you neglecting your duties to King and Country? SH _

_ There is such an art known as delegation. It’s about time I practiced it. MH _

_ I am in no condition to have company. Or to further my study in intimacy. SH _

_ It doesn’t matter to me. Come home. MH _


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft looks after his brother upon his return to Baker Street.

Sherlock all but falls forward when Mycroft opens the door for him – having heard his tired and heavy footsteps. The post-case crash had already gotten to him. Mycroft stabilizes him by slinging a supportive arm around his waist, and guides him toward the loo. Trying not to wrinkle his own nose for his brother smells rather like he had just been fished out of the Thames. 

Little brother sighs in relief when he finally notices the hot bath that Mycroft had drawn up in anticipation of his arrival. Without too much fanfare, Sherlock immediately strips – forcing Mycroft to look away. If he hadn’t been so afraid of Sherlock collapsing onto the ground, he would have walked out of the bathroom altogether. 

“Stay.” Sherlock mutters when he’s safely situated in the tub. 

“You sure?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Thought you weren’t in the mood for company.”

“Changed my mind. And am I seeing things? Where did that… rubber ducky come from?” 

Little brother eyes the bright yellow duck bobbing up and down in the foamy water. 

“Oh, um…”

“It’s yours, isn’t it?” 

“Thought that you could use some company that wouldn’t talk back –”

“You mean quack back?”

“Now you are being silly –”

“Says the man with the rubber ducky.” 

This whole conversation is stupid. But it’s stupidly endearing. 

Mycroft reaches downward to ruffle his brother’s curls. Sherlock leans into his touch with a little sigh, closing his eyes as he does so. It’s strange, seeing Lock so at peace like this. Mycroft had expected a little more anger at having figured out certain aspects of the murder before Sherlock, but there is none to be found. Maybe Lock is too exhausted. 

But somehow, he doesn’t think that is entirely the case. 

“Come on, Lock – wash yourself. We can’t have you falling asleep and drowning.”

“Mpph. You do it.” Sherlock gestures vaguely to the hair products and the body wash.

Sighing, Mycroft does so, reaching over the sudsy waters for some shampoo. He can’t help but inhale it; it smells so enticingly of Lock. 

His brother doesn’t notice his momentary silliness, his head tilted far back against the rim of the tub, his two well sculpted shoulders peeking out of the steamy waters like ivory. His long swanlike neck extended; the water glistening like pools of ambrosia in its hollows. Marring the perfection are faint silvery scars at the back, momentos of an adventurous three years that Sherlock never wanted to talk about. It takes nothing away from eroticism of the imagery, and Mycroft counts mentally to five – willing his lecherous desire to lick every droplet away. Thanking the gods that the bubbles obscured the rest of Sherlock’s beautiful body. 

He lathers his brother’s hair, getting it nice and soapy. Sherlock purrs like a big cat; making a rumbly sort of noise that Mycroft isn’t quite acquainted with. But pleasant. Mycroft’s digits comb through those locks, carefully removing tangles and other abuses that had been done over the last few days while on the hunt. 

“Mm… s’good.” Sherlock mumbles before making a sound that resembles suspiciously like a moan. Mycroft bites his bottom lip to prevent an equally awkward noise from escaping. His brother continues, slurring his words drunkenly. “Talents wasted as a pen-pusher, My… shoulda been a masseuse instead.”

“A poisoned compliment.” 

“Mpph…” Sherlock sighs, ducking his head into the water to rid himself of the shampoo. “So… what did you see over the week? Were you watching constantly?”

“Saw enough to solve your case. No nefarious intent. Just wanted to see you. Make sure you are… well.”  _ Or rather… I missed you. _ Mycroft keeps the sentiment to himself. “Disappointed that I didn’t get to figure out who knocked up your –”

“Certainly wasn’t me.” Sherlock shudders visibly while Mycroft coats his locks with conditioner. He shuts his eyes tight, as if pained. “You know that… that –” 

“It’s alright, Lock.” He says soothingly. “I don’t think of you any less –”

“I’ve never gotten that far with someone. Couldn’t. Found people utterly repulsive. Janine’s tried – she’s the one that got the closest but God, no. Couldn’t perform when we got to the part –”

It’s Mycroft’s turn to feel nauseous. “I understand.”

“I am not straight by any means. No one ever gets the message.” 

“I’ve always thought that if you were ever inclined sexually, you would pick men.” 

“I adore you.” Sherlock says unexpectedly. 

Mycroft could only blush. 

He’s only thankful that Sherlock can’t see him from his vantage point. Of course, little brother means it in a platonic sense, but they are certainly words to remember and replay on darker days. 

“I can handle it from here.” Sherlock says after an awkward silence had elapsed. “I don’t think I can manage food –”

“Oh, I know. I made you some soup. Minestrone. And I have some simple sandwiches. Cucumber. Egg salad. Smoked salmon. You can have your pick. Try what you can. Spiced apple juice too.” Mycroft replies hastily, hating that his lack of response earlier had made things so strange between them. He gives one last final caress – letting his fingers dip down to one of Sherlock’s cheekbones, before saying quietly. “I… adore you too, Lock. Don’t doubt that. I will… let you be.”

He walks out, feeling rather flustered about his emission of sentiment. 

It’s ridiculous. This tradition of the ‘stiff upper lip’ that British males grow up with. It also didn’t help that he donned the mantle of the ‘Iceman’. Spending more time as this emotionless creation rather than being himself. Perhaps, like Lock – he had never had the chance to be himself either. Eaten up by the pain that sister dear had wrought into his life so long ago. Eurus might have shaped Sherlock’s life, but she had certainly made her mark on his. 

He cleanses his hands from the conditioner at the kitchen sink, before setting out a small spread for Sherlock to eat before he shoos him off to bed. 

It’s easier to do things for his brother. To watch him from his extensive surveillance networks rather than to say the affections that he held deep within him. To express the (fraternal) love that has always been there since he had first laid his eyes on his little brother. There is also the not-so-fraternal variety, but he still doesn’t know if that sort of thing is welcome. He doesn’t want to scare Lock away. That would not do. 

His brother emerges from the loo, freshly garbed in one of his dressing gowns. His damp locks are a curling mess, but Mycroft thinks that it’s an adorable look on his usually neat and put together Lock. He rubs at his eyes, trying to keep sleep at bay. 

“Thank you.” Sherlock nods, his words are a whisper. 

“You are welcome.” 

Mycroft pulls his laptop closer toward him, just as Sherlock sits down and grabs a sandwich indiscriminately. 

On a whim, he opens the application that allows him to tap into his bugs, and he picks the one that had been left at the pathologist’s flat long ago as Sherlock had often frequented it as a bolthole in the old days. Considering that Hooper lived a quiet lifestyle with her and her… feline – Mycroft had programmed the bug to record any conversations that lasted longer than a minute. This is a bug that captured audio only, in contrast to the little camera he had had an agent set up in the morgue. Mycroft can’t even remember the last time he had checked the recordings made by this particular bug. Never mind – he could. He had used it to extract the conversation that Sherlock and the pathologist had had during that ‘I LOVE YOU’ game that bloody Eurus had set up. Curiously, there are a few abnormally long conversations saved and uploaded over the past months. The most recent being… yesterday.

_ [There is the sound of knocking at the door.] _

_ “John! I didn’t expect –” _

_ “Molls – would you please look after Rosie today? I know you wanted some time for yourself – but I got pulled into the A&E for the swing shift. I apologize for the short notice  _ – _ ” _

_ “Couldn’t you have asked someone else? I am not in the mood.”  _

_ “Molly, please? Mrs Hudson wasn’t at Baker Street. My sister is working. And my Mum decided to go see relatives in Spain –” _

_ “Why don’t you go ask Sherlock..?” _

_ [An awkward pause elapses.] _

_ “What… what happened to your arm? It’s Sherlock, isn’t it? You two got in a scuffle? That’s rather mean of him…” _

_ “Yeah, Molls – can we please not talk about this now?” _

_ [Another pause. This time, it could be inferred that the pathologist is deep in thought.] _

_ “I will take her, but one condition.”  _

_ “What is it?”  _

_ “Would you listen to me for a few minutes, John – there’s… there’s something I need to tell you…” _

_ [The door closes shut.] _

_ “Fine.”  _

Mycroft presses stop. 

_ Well… that is unexpected.  _

“Oh dear Lord.” 

“Oh dear, oh dear…” Sherlock shakes his head in disbelief, evidently much more awake. “You cut it off at the good part!” 

“You need your rest, Lock. There are several conversations recorded over the past few months. I assure you that they will still be there for your listening pleasure when you awaken.”

“Brother dear, you are a sadist.”

“Only doing what’s right for you, Lock. Come on. You are a step away from snoozing into your soup.”

His brother concedes without a word.  _ What a strange new world this is!  _ “Can you…” Sherlock somehow manages to look frightfully young with his shyness. “Can you… tuck me in?”

Mycroft stands up, closing his laptop. He picks up a napkin and wipes away the debris from his plush lips, before extending an arm out. Sherlock takes it readily, sending an odd sort of thrill down Mycroft’s spine. He guides Lock to his bedroom, where Mycroft had remade the bed with fresh linens. Sherlock kind of falls straight into bed. Gently, he tousles Sherlock’s hair, before carefully tucking him in as he had done when Sherlock had been a child. As if a reflex, he ducks down to kiss his brother’s forehead, and he says.

“Don’t let the bed bugs bite.”

There is a faint carefree smile on Sherlock’s lips, and Mycroft can’t help but to reach out again and tenderly brush the curls away from his brother’s forehead. 

It’s nice. He reflects. To look after a little brother who is willing to be taken care of, just as it is for Sherlock to treat him to nice evenings. 

When this experiment is over, Mycroft will miss it. 

He would miss it… dearly. 

“Will you be there when I wake up?” 

“Course. Night, Lock.” 

With one last fond look, Mycroft goes to close the curtains completely – blocking out the midday sun – before walking back to the kitchen table, where he planned on getting some work done remotely.

***

“Mr Holmes!” The landlady gawks at him in surprise when she walks into the kitchen, carrying a tray of what Mycroft suspects to be a hearty fish pie. The top of which is covered in tin foil. “Good heavens! How did you get in here? I thought the footsteps I heard were Sherlock’s!” 

It’s been a long time since Mycroft has seen Sherlock’s landlady in the flesh. Just as he’s never liked John, she’s never liked him. Mainly because Mycroft suspects that Sherlock had never shown him any outward affection, complaining about how meddlesome, irritating and terrible he was over the years. Always sticking his big nose into everything – Sherlock would say. She had been the one who had called him the ‘reptile’ after all. But as he is trying to develop his relationship with his brother, he needs to make peace with Mrs Hudson, who is one of the few reliable people that Sherlock had in his corner. A motherly figure that Sherlock never had; one who could keep up with his shenanigans and dish it out as good as she could get. 

“They were.” Mycroft says as politely as he could. “I made sure he cleaned himself up and had gotten something into him before taking him to his bed.” 

“Oh, the poor dear! It’s been a while since he’s been on a chase like that! Hasn’t been home in a week!” She frowns a little, realizing that Mycroft hadn’t answered her initial question.

“I do have a key, Mrs Hudson. Contrary to public belief, Sherlock gave it to me under his own free will several years ago. We’ve… been trying to mend our fences recently.”

“I see.” Mrs Hudson gives him a strange look that Mycroft could not deduce. 

She had caught sight of Mycroft’s rubber ducky – the ever so reliable Quackers – sitting next to his laptop. Judging by her tone, she doesn’t doubt the truth in the words he had said. She puts the pie down in front of Mycroft, suddenly looking older and greyer. 

Much to his surprise, she starts confiding in him. “He’s… changed. After Sherrinford. Some days he sits or stands. His hands folded like he normally does. Or he has his violin, and he haphazardly plucks at the strings. We were all worried. I could stand next to him and say something, and it would be as if he’s not with us at all. And then he would go see that… sister of his, and come back – looking even more depressed. Then one day I suggested to John that maybe he ought to consider moving back in –”

“They rowed.” Mycroft nods knowingly.

“I didn’t expect that. It was nasty. Sherlock had quite a shiner after John had left.” Mrs Hudson shakes her head. “I felt quite guilty about it. I tried to talk to Sherlock about it, but he only withdrew deeper into himself. I knew… then that it wasn’t the first time that John had hurt him like that. I’ve seen it enough with my –”

“Ex-husband.”

She nods. “At the end, I was glad that John wasn’t moving in. Sherlock has had enough violence in his life! And then one day, Sherlock started disappearing for days at a time. Suffolk he says, but –” There’s another shake of her head, with the faintest of grins. “I think… he’s found someone. He always came back in a more… contented mood. He brooded less. Started helping Greg with his cases again...”

As Mrs Hudson extolls the benefits of Sherlock’s visits to Suffolk, Mycroft can’t help but feel jealous. Was there really another person? The shrewd Mrs Hudson seems to think so. But he knows that Sherlock had gone alone on his journeys to Suffolk. Not to a paramour’s house, but to a house that both Sherlock and he had fond memories of from their otherwise traumatic childhoods. He finds himself squeezing Quackers with his hand, trying to get himself to relax. 

“You plan to stay longer?”

“I promised him that I would be here when he wakes.” 

“It might be awhile. He can sleep for days after a case.”

“I know.” Mycroft shrugs carelessly, not wanting to appear too caring. 

“I will leave you to your work, Mr Holmes.” 

Mrs Hudson walks off, leaving him wondering what is it exactly that she’s taken away from this meeting. She’s always been a shrewd opponent.

He releases the air from Quackers slowly, preventing the rubber ducky from squeaking too loudly.

***

“You are still here.” Sherlock has a shocked look on his face after he walked into the kitchen the following afternoon. His hands rub at his sleep-crusted eyes. “Do you not have –”

“I keep my promises to you, Lock. Or at least… I try my best.” Mycroft says softly. He had slept too, having gone upstairs to the spare bedroom to catch a few winks. Mrs Hudson had made the bed recently, so it wasn’t too dusty. He changes the topic to something less sentimental. “I do hope you slept well.”

His brother grins. “I did.” His hand shoots forward to reach for Quackers. His fingers lightly stroke the rubber, no doubt making deductions. “He’s an old friend.”

“That he is, Lock. Come, get some food into your belly and –”

“Will you teach me something new?” Sherlock asks him.

“Of course.”  _ Whatever you want. _ “Maybe… we could go outside? Have a little stroll?”

“Really, you would do that? Let us be seen in… public?”

“No one knows who I am, Lock. And you – you haven’t been out in public for a long time. You know – the goldfish do not have long memories… Besides, what’s wrong with two brothers spending time together?” 

Sherlock shuts his eyes briefly, his forehead wrinkled in some sort of… pain? Before opening them again. 

“What’s wrong?” Mycroft asks. 

“Nothing… nothing.” Sherlock waves his hand.

“Does your head hurt, Lock? We could always stay in. I just thought that… it’s probably the last nice evening we would have for a while. Where it isn’t too cold, or too damp.”

“I wonder what sort of state secrets does your ducky know, My? I can see it, you know – marinating yourself in in a tub full of bubbles after a long workday, having a little debriefing session with –”

“Quackers. His name is Quackers.” Mycroft lets Sherlock redirect the conversation. 

“Cute.” Sherlock smiles at the grimace that Mycroft makes. 

He sits down, just as Mycroft goes to reheat some of Mrs Hudson’s delicious fish pie (he had had some before he had gone to bed) and some of the soup he had brought from the previous day. He also pours Lock some of the soy milk that they had had a week ago, after tasting it himself to make sure that it is still fresh. 

“I like this, being waited on hand and foot. I could… get used to this.” 

“Believe me, little brother – I know.” 

Mycroft stoops down a little after bringing the mug of soy milk back to the table, with a coaster, brushing the lightest of kisses against his brother’s forehead. Perhaps it is his time to gather some data too. There’s another expression of wonderment on Sherlock’s countenance, but there is nothing to suggest that his kiss is unwelcome. 

Rather… the opposite. 

“Fetch me my pie, slave!” Sherlock demands brashly when the microwave beeps, ruining the tender moment.

Mycroft can only laugh helplessly as he goes to fetch Sherlock’s ‘breakfast’. His brother breaks character and his infectious laughter intermingles with his. 

It’s been so painfully long since he’s heard his brother laugh like this. So freely. It is a balm to his own soul, for if his dearest could still laugh like this – then he hadn’t fucked up too badly over the years. 

He smiles a little wistfully to himself, wishing that it is he who had the exclusive privilege of making Sherlock laugh for the years to come. Indeed, he could get used to this.


	6. Chapter 6

True to his word, Mycroft takes Sherlock out. 

It’s late afternoon, and the fiery colours which are the harbinger of a sun about to set streak the skies with an artist’s broad strokes. There’s not much in the way of flowery blossoms, as the cold sinks into the earth. But there is the brilliant autumn palette created by the breakdown of chlorophyll in the thinning leaves and littered in piles upon the ground. Birds flirt about, singing their songs – calling for one another in the trees. A few pelicans stand upon the rocks leading down to the lake, looking to and fro. Squirrels dash like acrobats – the grey blurs scaling trunks and leaping across branches. 

They walk a healthy fraternal distance apart; their steps occasionally slowing as Mycroft points out bounties of fungi, the few flowers that remain in bloom and even the rare hare weaving about. His brother seems to be lost in thought at times, his hands tucked into the pocket of his new swishy coat. Not quite the Belstaff that he had loved to wear long ago, but it still cut him a dashing figure. 

It seems that after Sherrinford, his brother is attempting to fade into obscurity. 

_ What is baby brother contemplating? _ Mycroft wonders. 

The distance between them is almost too far for him to bear, and he identifies the foreign feeling; it is the sensation of yearning. It seems that by spending more time with his brother – talking to him, comforting him, breaking bread with him – had increased the unbrotherly affection that he’s harboured in his buried heart. 

But really, what did he expect?

There appears to be this pull that Sherlock has over him. And the pushing away of his own making; he’s terrified of getting too involved with his brother’s desire for exploring… intimacy of all things. How changeable Lock could be over the years! Throwing himself into one pursuit before abandoning it for another! It creates a gravitational force of some type, forcing Mycroft to orbit about the intriguing planet known as Sherlock yet never allowing him to get close enough to be well… satisfied.

His arm has a life of its own. Twitching every now and then as if wanting to cross the chasm. Wanting the pleasure of physical contact. At some point, even Sherlock with his head in the clouds must have noticed, because he releases an impatient huff and like the impulsive (reckless) being that he is, wraps his arm around his. Even if there are layers of designer coats and shirtsleeves that separate them, it feels  _ intimate _ in a way that Mycroft had never experienced. The places on his arm which ‘touch’ Sherlock feel like they are burning, making him very aware that he is ‘arm-in-arm’ with Lock in public. Never has he felt this way with his previous encounters with men long forgotten. It’s ridiculous how his brother could make him feel like this. Is this the feeling that most people on the planet chase? On their endless quest of finding  _ the _ ‘one’? Or is it just the idea that Mycroft is flaunting his illicit incestuous feelings in public that is giving him this particular high?

They stop at a tranquil grove teeming with birdsong. The winds blow – gentle caresses against Mycroft’s face. They are alone, as many of the park-goers have flocked to the hills to watch the descending sun, eager to fill their social media profiles with pictures that Anthea describes as ‘Instagramable’. The sunlight filters through the leaves, creating a kaleidoscope of ever changing shadows. 

It’s funny how being with Sherlock seems to have opened up new vistas of experiences. Making the ordinary seem… extraordinary. He would have never gone for a walk in the outside world in his free time, preferring to hide away in his house. Every stupid cliché that he’s heard and read about over the course of his lifetime seems to come to mind. How the musty air smells sweeter! The colours… more vibrant. Things seem much brighter. Interesting. Filled with potential! Never had he imagined that he could have  _ this _ after the disaster that is Sherrinford.

He almost gasps when Sherlock lets his arm slip, letting his hand brush against Mycroft’s own. There’s a small ‘impish’ smile on Sherlock’s face, as he takes out the small packet of birdseed from Mycroft’s coat pocket. 

Much to his surprise, Sherlock positions Mycroft’s hand and sprinkles a few seeds into it and Mycroft can spot the beady little eyes of curious little chickadees eyeing the crucial food source that they would need to survive the colder months from the boughs above. Then a bird comes, winging its way toward his hand – taking a seed and quickly flying off. It sets off a flurry as bird after bird flies and even fights for the opportunity to access the seeds. 

Sherlock’s eyes seem to sparkle, dancing with a sort of childish glee that reminded Mycroft of their youth. Memories of them exploring the world outside their home come to the forefront. Of them finding the sweetest berries, the rarest birds, the softest beds of grass, the best places for a dip and even the best ice cream shop. 

The curves of Sherlock’s lips go higher, and suddenly Mycroft finds himself decorated with seeds – in his hair, on his shoulders – his arms and even the various edges of his coat – and chickadees (evidently comfortable with this stunned Mycrofty fixture) perch on him for seconds at a time – eagerly pecking away at the food. And after it’s far too late, he notices that Sherlock has his phone out – no doubt snapping pictures as quick as he possibly could.

“You terrible boy!” Mycroft exclaims – frightening his feathery companions away. 

“It’s always a good time to stock up on blackmailing materials.” Sherlock offers a teasing smile. He quips. “The Iceman enjoying a day at the park. Offering alms to the hungry. Your reputation will be in tatters.” He shows an absurd picture displaying a pair of birds perched on Mycroft’s head. “I love this. I want to frame it.” 

His brother isn’t joking. 

He’s… serious. 

“You can.” Mycroft finds himself saying weakly, unable to say no. “Don’t… don’t let other people see it.”

Sherlock only laughs, but it’s not malicious in any way. Little brother reaches over to pluck a few seeds off his person and holds out his offerings, letting a few more birds feed. 

There’s something in the way that he looks at Mycroft. The softening of his eyes – with something that Mycroft could decipher as fondness. 

Mycroft tucks his bottom lip against his top lip, suppressing a wild urge to kiss his brother. Never has he felt so compelled to kiss someone. How endearing he looks with his wind-tousled hair and a chickadee perched on his finger. 

But it isn’t wise. Not because they are in public, but he’s afraid  _ (beyond terrified)  _ that it would ruin the good thing they had going. A gradual exploration of intimacy. 

“My…” Sherlock says, his voice quiet in the wind. He shivers, and Mycroft reflexively curls his arm around his brother – offering an unconventional shelter from the cooling weather. “Mycroft…” It’s as if Sherlock is tongue-tied, unable to say what he wants to say. 

And Mycroft for all his intellectual powers, could not deduce what his brother wished to convey. It leaves him with a sense of disappointment. Frustration even.

***

An odd fit of ‘giggles’ (for a lack of a better word) takes over Mycroft when a recognizable strain of song comes from the couple sitting nearby. Sherlock – sitting so tantalizingly close to him – gives him a bewildered look while the fire from the firepit in front of them flickers and crackles merrily, offering warmth on a chilly late autumn evening. Little brother puts down his strawberry-based mocktail onto the rustic tree-stump like table and inquires.

“What’s so funny? I… didn’t know you know Korean…”

Mycroft smiles wider. “I know pop-culture is beneath you, but that song speaks of your influence during the early years of the decade. It’s a hit kpop song from 2012 often referred to as ‘Sherlock’.” At his brother’s stunned look, he elaborates further. He had come across it when he had been preparing for a meeting with the Koreans, and that one of the top diplomats had a penchant for kpop. Sometimes, it’s best to have some knowledge of culture and hobbies to build rapport with one’s opponents, even if he personally didn’t care for the topics himself. “It’s about the constant hunt for answers, a suspect.”

“Really, Mycroft?” 

“Search it up for yourself if you don’t believe me.” 

Mycroft drinks a little of his own fruity drink. It’s nights like this where he misses the slow burn of alcohol, making everything just more light. More carefree. To put some fire into his own blood. But yet, sitting so close to Lock seems to make him lightheaded in a peculiar sort of way. 

He looks up as Sherlock pulls out his phone, looking up the song. The sky is beautifully clear, but only the moon can penetrate through the light veil of pollution. In Suffolk… perhaps – he could see the stars twinkling as brightly as he recalled in his childhood; where he would have a guidebook in hand, and he would navigate the stars for a curious little Lock. Maybe they could go look at the celestial heavens again. In the future. 

The strains of ‘Sherlock’ come from the phone, and Mycroft could imagine Sherlock shaking his head at the tribute, and at the old-fashioned garb that the detectives of the music video wear. 

“This is absolutely ridiculous, Mycroft. Is this what you do in your free time? Listen to pop music?”

“Oh, little brother – there is much you do not know about me.” Mycroft grins, trying to sound pompous which he knows drives Sherlock crazy to no end.

“Oh dear god – you dance to it too.” Sherlock gasps in a mock-scandalized sort of way. 

“Absolutely not.” Mycroft denies this immediately; he absolutely  _ does not! _

“Right…” 

“Perhaps only on nights where the moon is full.” Mycroft humours him.

Sherlock has the biggest smile on his face, and it’s not mocking, but rather… genuine. His beautiful eyes dance with mirth. “You know I despaired that over the years that you had misplaced your sense of humour.” 

Sherlock says in a way that makes it difficult to determine if he meant it as an observation or a teasing little joke. But the same fondness that Mycroft had seen in his eyes when they had been feeding the birds is still present. If only he could keep Sherlock looking at him in this way. 

“I thought I was quite funny.” 

Mycroft offers, knowing very well that their banter over the years had grown ugly and hurtful. More so when Dr Watson had come into their lives. It had seemed that Sherlock had something to prove to the ‘good’ doctor, playing up the rift in their relationship. 

“Mycroft…” Sherlock looks at him in an imploring sort of manner. 

Heat suffuses Mycroft’s cheeks, as if he had downed a few tumblerfuls of his favourite scotch. The pull between them has never been stronger until this moment and Mycroft reaches over, and Sherlock’s long fingers wrap around his hand, igniting sparks throughout his body. It’s pleasurable to the extreme, and he dares once again to gaze at Sherlock’s face. There is something – Mycroft could be sure of that. 

It comes abruptly, like a dysfunctional binary system of planets collapsing with a big kaboom – Sherlock is in his arms; his brother’s hand is resting against his chest, just over his heart and his head sagging against his shoulder. The hand against his chest burns through the layers, and Mycroft in his shock, weakly wraps his own arm tighter against his brother’s back – pulling him closer. 

“I am… am so sorry.” Sherlock mumbles.

“Sh… it’s alright. Lock. Of course, it’s alright.”

“I was horrid. All those years! I can’t believe… I forgot. That I... I don’t… deserve…  _ this…” _

“No, no – don’t. Don’t blame yourself. There was nothing you could have done. You were so young when everything happened. So innocent. Dearest…” The word slips from Mycroft’s mouth in the face of such an onslaught of guilt. “Please.”

“And now… I am dragging you down with me. Mycroft…” 

“Hush. If you say such utter tosh again, Lock – I am leaving and never talking to you again.” Mycroft says firmly.

“Mycie.” Sherlock is looking up at him hopelessly, his hands now grasping the fabric of his jumper beneath his coat, as if letting go would mean he would never see Mycroft again. “I…”

“Don’t say it.” Mycroft warns. 

_ Not yet, anyways. _

Just hearing Sherlock say that old nickname is already more than he could bear. He had hated anyone else using it, for it reminded of what things used to be. Of what things could have been. Especially Mummy – the one who had unleashed their chaotic sister into the world. Childish, but it is what it is. He cannot control what he feels internally. 

He could hear his brother break then, his hand catching suspicious moisture from his beloved face. Mycroft could only imagine the loneliness that Sherlock had gone through over the years, mitigated somewhat by the golfishes that he had managed to pick up along the way. It only parallels his own, only that Sherlock had (between the two of them as difficult as it is to believe) greater emotional needs. Mycroft had always been an island upon himself (only allowing himself to be sentimental over his brother), but his poor Lock – had always internally yearned for a human connection. 

Why else would Lock have chosen to be a consulting detective versus everything else he could have done? Of course, there is the thrill of adventure, the chase, the flurry of deductions – but really it had been the fact that it put him in proximity with people. So that he could help others in a way that he had failed Redbeard. Of course, Sherlock wouldn’t have been aware of this, but the early experiences of one’s tender years did much to shape the outcome of one’s life. 

“I’ve… got you.” Mycroft says quietly, reassuringly. 

Those are the important words that his brother needs to hear for this particular moment. 

Sherlock smiles slightly. 

Mycroft lets his fingertip lightly brush across those wind-chapped lips, taking a second to trace over the cupid’s bow. He closes his own eyes, just savouring what it felt like to hold Sherlock in his arms like this. In a semi-sort of public.

The words that tumble out of Mycroft’s lips next take him off-guard. He might as well be inebriated. “Would you… would you let me come with you to Suffolk next time?”

Sherlock’s eyes betray his surprise. He adopts a thoughtful look, as if weighing pros and cons. 

The old house is Sherlock’s safe space. Mycroft tells himself.  _ Don’t feel too upset if he says no! _

“Silly brother.” Sherlock shakes his head after a minute had elapsed. “You have as much right to go as I do.”

“But, do you want me to come with you? I don’t wish to… intrude. Especially if it is a place where you –”

“No!” The force of the syllable shocks them both. But then Sherlock grasps Mycroft’s hands before Mycroft could have a chance to misunderstand, and he says quickly – his irises intense, as if boring into Mycroft’s soul. “No. You aren’t intruding. Please… come with me. Be with me. I… want you to come. I…” He trails off.

“Lock. I will come with you.”

There is relief in Sherlock’s face. Mycroft leans over to kiss his cheek – feeling rather brave (or was it stupid?); how Sherlock’s eyes seem to smile at him! No. He isn’t wrong then. His attentions are very much welcomed by his Lock – and not because Sherlock wants to practice, but he had really really  _ really _ wanted to experience the full gamut of experiences that two people who care for each other dearly can have with one another with… him – his brother. 

So… there is no other man then… God. He really must be slipping… Willfully blind, rather. 

But it’s not every day where such forbidden fruit drops into his lap like this! 

“Hungry.” Sherlock breaks Mycroft out of his reverie in his usual demanding way.

There’s a silly little grin (besotted, really) that Mycroft knows is on his face. He picks up the stick, speared with several marshmallows and holds it over the fire. Sherlock simply sags against him more, deriving in the comfort of being together. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visit from Molly. And a scene on the rooftops.

_ [Sherlock is sitting at the kitchen table in Baker Street. His fingers are clasped. Lost in thought as he is wont to do these days.] _

Mycroft watches him on his secondary monitor while his fingers type away at a report. It’s ridiculous. He hasn’t been with his brother in one day and he’s already pining after him like a dog whose master had left for work. His fingers twitch to send him a text and his lips itch to give him (or at the minimum blow him) a kiss that he could not see. 

_ [The sounds of knocking fill the room.] _

It startles both of them. Mycroft only registers the footsteps of the visitor on the landing just now. They hadn’t hesitated before tackling the door. The knocking is incessant. Angry. From a woman most likely. 

Who did Lockie piss off now? 

Mycroft hits a few buttons on the screen, jumping to the bug outside the flat, hidden within a light fixture. From that messy bun of hair and that old coat covered in cat fur, he could tell that it is Ms Hooper from behind. 

_ [The door opens. Sherlock blinks before Ms Hooper starts to rip into him.] _

_ “What did you do to him, Sherlock?” _

_ [Sherlock blinks, evidently confused.] _

_ “How could you? I thought he was your best friend? You kicked him out of the flat. You broke his right arm! In two places! How is he supposed to work?” _

_ “I…” _

_ “How is he supposed to look after Rosie? Look after his patients? You never think about the consequences of your actions, do you – Sherlock Holmes?” _

_ “Molly, I didn’t –” _

_ [Slap!] _

Mycroft cringes as his brother gets accused and abused for something he didn’t do. 

God. What good friends his brother has made over the years! His brother has the appearance of an unfortunate deer caught in the headlights. 

_ “I don’t want to hear it! I don’t want to hear your lies. I’ve had quite enough of them! How many times are you going to keep letting us down, Sherlock? The drugs. Turning your best friend and your own goddaughter out of their home!” _

_ [She slaps the other cheek.] _

_ “You couldn’t even get me pregnant! I always wanted a child. Your –” _

_ “Stop it!”  _

_ [Sherlock breaks out of his trance and grabs Molly’s flailing hand before he could get hit again.] _

_ “Let go of me, you fiend!” _

_ [He drops Molly’s wrist as if it had caught on fire.] _

_ “For the record, Molly, I didn’t –” _

_ “Fuck off, Sherlock.”  _

_ [The pathologist glares at him. Looking crazier by the second. Her hand rests protectively on her belly.] _

_ “What’s wrong, Sherlock? Can’t handle meek little Molly swearing?” _

_ “No…”  _

_ “You probably know everything already, don’t you? How far along I am? Who the father is? Judging how fucked up my life is after you humiliated me in such a fashion?” _

_ “I… I don’t –” _

_ “You don’t care, do you?” _

_ “Molly…” _

_ [Sherlock is in pure agony.] _

_ “I won’t let you hurt John again. Or any of our children, Sherlock. Do you understand? Good fucking day.”  _

_ [Molly slams the door with all the force she could muster.] _

_ [Sherlock slumps to the floor, looking as if his life had left him.] _

Mycroft kills all the programs on his desktop without another thought. Hastily, he texts his driver, grabs his things and walks straight out of his office. 

“Cancel everything on the schedule, Anthea. I need to be elsewhere.”

Anthea is surprised. Mycroft hasn’t done this for a long while now. But she replies. “Of course, Sir. How long?”

“For today. I will let you know if I need more time.”

“Emergent business, Sir?”

“It’s personal.” 

Mycroft scurries out as quickly as it is acceptable in Whitehall, missing the curious expression on Anthea’s face. 

***

Arslan, his driver, could not take him to Baker Street fast enough. Mycroft all but runs up the stairs, his heart pounding with worry, and he knocks with a bit more aggression than he ought. 

“Sherlock!” 

He calls out his brother’s name twice more before fishing out the keys, finding the right one and slotting it in. The door opens and the flat appears… empty. 

Fuck. Where could little brother have gone?

“Sherlock. Sherlock!” 

His eyes take stock of the living room, before his hand reaches for the knob of Sherlock’s private room. Slowly he turns it. It swings backward, leaving Mycroft in a dim, well-organized bedroom with a window left wide open. His instinct is to look down (his heart plummets as he does so), but there’s only a series of open bins down below.

“Sherlock?!” 

“My?”

He hears his brother’s voice somewhere nearby.

“Sherlock!”

“Up here. The roof.” 

Poking his head out of the window, Mycroft looks up with some askance. His middle-aged body isn’t exactly in prime shape to handle these little gymnastic maneuvers. 

“Would you… come down?”

“In a little while. I promise that… I won’t jump off of it; if that’s what you are worried about, Myc… If you come up here, bring a blanket or something – please?” 

Sighing, Mycroft finds a blanket with substance against the cold in one of Sherlock’s drawers. With an old heave-ho, he stands on the windowsill and swings himself onto the roof, as Sherlock had done earlier. 

His brother is sitting there, with his knees up to his chest. Looking so impossibly… young. But that expression on his face! That misery… that sadness… It reminded Mycroft of the days following Victor’s death. When Sherlock had been too young to understand, but knew enough that something terrible had happened to one of his best friends. And in Sherlock’s hand – the only thing that he had thought to bring up here – is one bright yellow squeaker of a duck. So Mycroft had forgotten to bring Quackers home. Or his brother had nabbed him when he hadn’t been looking.

“Oh Lock.” 

Mycroft moves over to sit next to him. Unfolding the blanket, he quickly drapes it over them both. It’s chilly, but not windy. The skies are grey, but there is not a raindrop in sight. For now. 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Sherlock shakes his head subtly. “Later.” He offers. “But… you came.” 

“Of course I did. How could I not?”

“But the nation? The Prime Minister? The Queen?”

“Can wait. It’s just a job, Lock – at the end of the day. It passes the time and pays the bills.”

Sherlock chuckles. He leans back, supporting himself with his arms and hands. “I understand. It’s  _ Work _ that has become… work. That… happened to me. I thought that it never would.”

“Yeah.” Mycroft finds himself wishing for a cigarette. “I never thought that that particular day would come.”

Sherlock flings him a cigarette carton and a lighter from somewhere. Mycroft catches both.

“Let’s just have one and quit again after, Mycroft. Life sucks right now.”

A moment later, and Mycroft had shredded the packaging, took out a cigarette and lit it. He sucks greedily before coughing, unused to the acridity. Oh. But it feels so good though. He passes the fag to his brother, who takes a puff. Sherlock extends his neck, showing all that beautiful musculature before blowing his smoke out in one measured exhale. 

“Why is everything that feels so good, bad for us?” Sherlock complains after.

“It’s just the nature of things, Lock. I’ve stopped asking why certain things are the way they are.” 

Mycroft decides to recline completely on the roof; his dry cleaner can deal with the damages. He takes the cig again from Lock, and inhales – very mindful that Lock’s own lips have touched the same spot where his lips are currently occupying. He holds the fag out, watching the smoke drift lazily with the breeze.

“Like what?”

“Like why our sister is the way she is. Why our species is a fundamentally selfish one. And why I –” Mycroft stops himself there before he could say something that he isn’t ready to say.

He takes another drag instead. 

“Why you – what?” 

“Lock. I am not ready to say it.”

Sherlock instead leans his head against Mycroft’s shoulder, and Mycroft curls his arm around Lock’s abdomen. There’s a knowing little smile on Sherlock’s face. But mercifully, he doesn’t push on the matter. 

Instead, Sherlock takes another turn with the fag, and Mycroft curses the entertainment business for glamourizing smoking – because his brother looks exceptionally bloody hot when he does, blowing his obnoxious smoke rings into the already polluted London air. 

“Give me that.” Mycroft says with a little bit more snap than intended.

His brother gives him an incredulous look, before bursting into laughter. He holds the cig comically out of reach. “Oh, Mycroft – you are so ridiculously human –”

“And you aren’t?”

Sherlock then asks seriously. “You don’t think… what we are doing is bad for us, is it?”

“If you mean the smoking, it’s terrible!”

His brother creeps closer once more. He asks another, his voice turning dangerously silky to Mycroft’s poor ears. “Would you kiss me for a drag?”

Those pink lips are so enticingly close to him. So exquisitely shaped. Their faces are almost touching. Mycroft can feel a cold raindrop fall on his cheek and slide downwards. Yet, he feels as if Sherlock had dropped the cig on his lap and set him on fire. But, God – they are up on a roof where they could be seen! Granted, they are facing the back, but still! His brother’s breath – so tantalizingly hot and smoky – cause goosebumps to form, heightening the intensity of whatever it is that he is feeling. Excitement. Arousal. But all tempered with affection. 

Then Sherlock brings up the blanket, obscuring both their faces from public view and suddenly Mycroft feels soft lips brush against his own, and he’s instantly kissing back. Gently first, before giving into his need. 

It frightens him – this want that he has denied himself for years. Decades even. He kisses to adore; he kisses to devour. He nibbles and nips, taking in every sigh and noise that Sherlock produces. His fingers are in his brother’s curls, helping him control the kiss. 

They break apart, and begin anew. This time allowing Sherlock’s inexperienced lips take the lead. Teaching his brother how to kiss is probably one of the most satisfying things that Mycroft has ever done. It’s adorable how tentative he is at the start. But, this is Sherlock – and he’s never timid for long. He learns quickly and is eager to please. And really, Mycroft could sit on this roof and kiss his brother all day long…

Something burnt makes its way to Mycroft’s nose, forcing him to break the kiss with reluctance, and he realizes –

“Fuck.” 

The blanket had caught on fire from the fag that he had been holding. Sherlock notices and chuckles fondly, grabbing the blanket and stubs it aggressively against the roof tiles, putting it out. Mycroft takes the fag to his lips and has just one more inhalation before snuffing it out. He shoves what remains of the cigarette into the carton and tosses everything into the bins down below. 

There’s a rumble of thunder in the distance, and it suddenly begins to pour. 

He can’t help but to laugh at how ridiculous this all is. Having their first kiss on a roof! Like some tragic Shakespearean lover! With his fine suit absolutely drenched!

Sherlock inches his way down the incline of the roof; it gives Mycroft a sudden flashback to that awful day at Bart’s so long ago. The moment passes quickly, as his brother swings down to his window, and seconds later – Mycroft follows, mindful of the now more slippery tiles and Sherlock helps him down to his bedroom. 

They kiss again, as the rain continues to fall. 

“Do you have Quackers?” Mycroft asks when they part.

Sherlock smiles, holding the duck for him to see. He gives the ducky a fond squeeze. 

“I took him from your suitcase.” He says, suddenly looking shy. “Before you left the other day.” 

“And I thought my mind was going.” 

Mycroft ducks over to brush his lips quickly against Sherlock’s cheek to reassure him that he’s not upset. Knowing that Sherlock had taken his bath companion for sentimental reasons.

“He makes me feel… less alone when you aren’t here. I know it’s stupid…” 

“It’s not.” Mycroft says quietly, letting his arms pull his brother closer in a loose embrace. Noting how the rainwater had made his brother’s shirt translucent. “It really isn’t. Keep him, Lock.”

“Do you really have to go back?”

“No.”

“Stay then. Keep me company, Mycie.” 

“Of course.” 


	8. Chapter 8

Mycroft’s fingers gently run through Sherlock’s curls. 

With a sigh of pleasure, Sherlock turns a little on the couch. He doesn’t want to think. He doesn’t want to feel emotions out of the scope of their cozy little bubble of two. But it’s hard. In the old days, he would have turned to his old friends: the drugs – but now, that’s not an option for him anymore. He had given up all the old vices and he no longer wants to be a burden to his brother in that fashion. 

His fingers lazily stroke the rubber of Quackers’ back as the duck rests on his abdomen, offering a surprisingly comforting presence. Molly’s visit, accusations and tirade had caught him off guard. She had been right. That all Sherlock had known was the meek little being within her, happy to cater to his every whim in the hopes of acquiring whatever table scrap of attention that he could toss her way. 

But now of course, she has chosen to side with the father of her unborn child. 

“It will be alright, Lock. You will see.”

“You… you won’t do anything… will you?” 

Sherlock hates the odd little tremor in his voice. It’s funny, how brains have a tendency to focus on the negative. He could still feel the sting of Molly’s hand against his face. The places where John had beaten, bruised and even broken throughout the years. The momentary look of hatred in John’s eyes when Sherlock had told him that it probably wasn’t a wise idea for him to stay at Baker Street after its renovations all those months ago. 

__

> _It’s my home too. Mary would have wanted it. We belong together, Sherlock, whether you like it or not. It’s Watson and Holmes. Not Holmes, alone. The Baker Street Family. We wouldn’t want to sully her last wish, wouldn’t we?_

Other things had come up into Sherlock’s mind. Where had John been when he had needed him? His former friend had not wanted to hear a word about why he had gone away. Still didn’t. Had believed Culverton over him, and spilled the beans about Magnussen to Lestrade on official tape (which Mycroft had had to make a visit to remove from the Yard). Had cheated on Mary (at least emotionally) and was now behaving like her pious widow, laying all the blame for her demise at Sherlock’s feet. 

__

A psychiatrist would term it as ‘splitting’, seeing a person or a thing as ‘all good’ and ‘all bad’. A simple defense mechanism to deal with life’s traumas. Sherlock doesn’t usually take too much stock into what the quacks say, but here, it made some sort of sense. He had read the textbooks during the years where Mycroft had forced him to go to rehabs and shrinks.  _ Know thyself. Know thy enemy. _ It’s how he had managed to wrangle the sociopath diagnosis back when it had been a thing. 

__

There were moments where Sherlock is sure John is fighting these defensive mechanisms, but eventually he defers to them; his life is much easier to cope with if he could just blame all his misfortunes and suffering on Sherlock after his grand deception. As much as it hurts to accept, Sherlock knows he isn’t entitled to John’s forgiveness. 

__

And it wasn’t until after Sherrinford – until his discovery of the truth involving Eurus and Redbeard where Sherlock could see this so clearly. To see that he had clung onto John so desperately after his return because he didn’t want a repeat of losing another friend, regardless of how John had treated him. But the bitter truth to take in is that Sherlock had already lost him long ago.

__

He had said ‘no’ to John. The first time he’s ever said ‘no’ to him in a long time. Plus, Baker Street wasn’t a good home for a child. With clients coming by, experiments being run and the bedroom upstairs wasn’t enough for two people. Even for one man and a small child. And then, John had hit him. Which only reaffirmed his decision. 

__

What would happen next time things don’t go smoothly for John? 

__

The next time Sherlock made him angry?

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“No. I don’t think so. They… oddly deserve each other, I would say.” Mycroft says after a moment’s thought. “But if they ever touch you again…” 

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Sherlock shudders at the silence that follows. 

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An invested Mycroft is a dangerous man. 

__

His brother’s hand gently caresses his cheeks, tracing his cheekbones. Replacing the old hurtful sensations with something new. Something tender. Sherlock had known that Mycroft would have seen his rather humiliating encounter with Molly. Big brother had turned to his spying ways again. But now, instead of it being overbearing, he finds that he likes being watched now. Knowing that this is a British Government’s way of saying that he cares about him. Perhaps, more. But he hadn’t known that Mycroft would have dropped everything just to run to his side. Just for this. It made up (almost) for his run-in with Molly earlier.

__

“It does feel strange to be blamed for something that I didn’t do.”

__

Mycroft releases a breathy sort of laugh. “Ha. You didn’t break his bones. You didn’t impregnate her. In their eyes, you are responsible for everything. Anything I do… is an extension of you.” 

__

He then looks down at Sherlock. His brow furrows and there is a slight frown on his face. “Lock.” His voice is grave. Somber. It makes Sherlock hatefully nervous. What is he? Some poor pup that someone had hit too many times? Expecting a blow whenever? Wherever? “You know… that I would never hurt you, right? I… have made some bad decisions regarding you in the past, but never… with bad intentions. And, I apologize for them. Sincerely. I would sooner end myself than hurt you intentionally.”

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“I know.” Sherlock says weakly, clutching Quackers tightly. “I know, Mycroft.”

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“Come up here, Lockie.” 

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_ Lockie? _ His childhood moniker? 

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He shuts his eyes; he can hear it. A younger Mycroft calling for him.  _ Lockie! Lockie!  _ Wanting to show him something. Coax him out of a hiding spot. To warn him of impending danger. It’s been so long since anyone has called him that. Mummy had tried, but Sherlock had refused to answer her whenever she did. He had blocked out all his happy memories then, leaving only a void behind. A void that he had filled with adrenaline rushes, chemical recreation and dangerous cases. But he realizes now that it had never been enough.

__

“If you don’t like it, I won’t call you that, Sherlock.”

__

Sherlock shakes his head. He slowly gets up, and Mycroft’s arms carefully hold him. Sighing, he rests his face against his brother’s, and Mycroft turns his head slightly to kiss him. He doesn’t like it; how he feels so fragile. He’s almost forty, for crying out loud! 

__

“I hate it.” Sherlock says, feeling as close to throwing a tantrum as he ever did.

__

“What do you hate, exactly?” His brother’s words are calm, but he could sense the undercurrent of worry.

__

“That I feel like this. Like I am walking on eggshells, not knowing if the next blow will shatter me into pieces. A moment just before –” Sherlock sags slightly, and Mycroft’s hand is caressing the back of his head. “You know. It’s why you said that you… wouldn’t –”

__

“I want to go back and break every single bone in his body.” Mycroft interrupts. The coldness in his voice takes both of them aback. He smiles wryly a beat later. It rather looks like a Great White about to savage some poor soul from below. “You wouldn’t let me.”

__

“Enough violence, Mycroft. I’ve had enough. I just…”

__

“Shh… no more. And if I commit anything, I won’t tell you.” 

__

“You are teasing me.”

__

“Maybe.” His brother looks fondly at him. “Only cuddles and kisses for you from now on.”

__

“I can live with that. And maybe… a little…” Why is this so difficult! He’s  _ not  _ a prude by any means. He’s seen everything in his line of work. Heart attacks during sex. Erotic asphyxiations gone horribly wrong. Countless very naked bodies. Then there was… Irene. He’s just… inexperienced, that’s all. He can see Mycroft fighting an urge to smile, which manifests as an odd twitch in his cheek. “Sex.” He manages, feeling his face flush. “Eventually.”

__

“I suppose that would have to be covered in our exploration of physical intimacy.” Mycroft says with a calmness that Sherlock so dearly envied. 

__

“Only if you want to.”

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“Of course I want to. Not today, but later. There’s nothing to be afraid of, Lock. It will just be you and I, with Quackers tucked safely away for his own good.”

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Sherlock could only grin into his brother’s shoulder. It is absurd (and adorable) that Mycroft is concerned about his ducky’s innocence! 

__

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***

__

__

The first thing Mycroft is aware of is something tickling his chin. Hair. There is something warm curled in front of him, making a snuffly sort of sound as it snored. Good Lord. It’s been years since he’s shared a bed with anyone. Especially with Lockie. He stretches out, reaching for his phone and he hears Lock grumble.

__

“It’s too early.” 

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“It’s the time when I usually get up and go to work, Lock.”

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“It’s unreasonable.”

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“Take it up with Anthea.” 

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“My?”

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“Yes, Lockie?”

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“Why do you have a dating app on your phone?”

__

Oh. Mycroft had completely forgotten about that. Damned Anthea! 

__

“Not that we ever talked about… exclusivity.” Sherlock all but whispers the word.

__

Mycroft quickly slips his arm around Lock. “Anthea made me get it. I guess… after Sherrinford – my sunny disposition was not well appreciated. You can look, Lock – if you want. I have nothing more to hide from you. No other siblings. No secret spouses. No –”

__

“Harems full of hot men? No secret affair with Lady Small – ouch!” 

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“God, no. Never.” Mycroft ducks down to press a kiss against the bare shoulder he had just pinched. “There’s only you, dear. I promise. Now… I am going to be late –”

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“There’s milk and leftovers in the fridge.”

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Sherlock makes a move to get out of bed, but Mycroft stops him by resting a hand against his shoulder. 

__

“I know. Thank you, dearest mine. I can get it myself. I didn’t mean to interrupt your beauty sleep –”

__

“S’lonely when you are gone.”

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“My apologies, Lock.” Mycroft reaches for Quackers who resides on the nightstand and places him on Lock’s chest. He presses a kiss against his brother’s cheek. “I’ve got to finish all my work so we can go to Suffolk over the weekend.”

__

“Capital idea. Go on then.” Sherlock mutters, before turning over and falling back asleep, his arm draped over Quackers. 

__

Unable to resist, Mycroft indulges in another kiss for his Sleeping Lock and heads to the loo to prepare for the day. 

__

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***

__

__

Anthea tuts when Mycroft finally walks into the office. 

__

_ Thirty minutes. _ He’s just thirty bloody minutes late! 

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“You did promise to cut me some slack, I believe – Anthea.”

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“Believe me, this is me expressing my leniency, Sir.” 

__

Anthea’s eyes then grow wide, perhaps noticing something that deviated from Mycroft’s usual impeccable standards of grooming. Or maybe their kisses from yesterday had been more ardent than he had thought they had been. Whatever it is, Anthea knows that he’s spent some time with another – engaging in activities that she had been prescribing for weeks. 

__

“Not a word.” Mycroft then supplements in a bid for sympathy. “I was already seen by the landlady.”

__

There’s a rather annoying grin now on Anthea’s face, but she turns straight back to her desktop and starts typing away.

__

Lord. He had gone to the kitchen after his shower in one of Sherlock’s dressing gowns to start the coffee before getting dressed, and almost bumped into Lockie’s damned landlady in the dark. She had clearly presumed that the noises coming upstairs were from Sherlock preparing for a case or something of that ilk and had come upstairs with a fry-up that she had made. 

__

It’s nice to know that brother dear is being looked after, but this really wasn’t the start to the morning that Mycroft had been looking for. It was the equivalent of running into a date’s Mummy after having been caught doing something inappropriate; a Mummy that was suspicious of his intentions from the outset. 

__

Mrs Hudson’s eyes had grown just like Anthea’s, having taken in the view of Mycroft in unconventional attire, illuminated mostly by the fridge light. She had put the food down on the table. There had been some sort of a standoff as she scrutinized him for what felt like forever, trying to puzzle out the situation. 

__

Before she had left, she had said rather cryptically. ‘I do hope that you intend to stay.’ 

__

Sighing, he heads into his office, intent on catching up with all the work he had left behind the day before.

__

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***

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“Lestrade.” Sherlock lets the copper in.

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“Hullo, Sherlock.” 

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“You don’t have a case.” 

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“I do, but it’s not for your eyes. Even a blindfolded Anderson could solve it.”

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“Like that would make a difference.” Sherlock scoffs, much to Glenn’s amusement. “Am I… in trouble?”

__

“No. I… don’t think so.” Lestrade’s brow furrows. “I just wanted to talk to you about John.” 

__

“Oh.” 

__

Sherlock finds his spirits dampening with the mention of his old friend. He withdraws into himself like a turtle. It’s funny how he doesn’t miss John anymore; the man had taken center stage in his thoughts for too long now.

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Garland presses a gentle hand against Sherlock’s wrist. “It’s alright, Sherlock.”

__

“It’s not.” His heart pounds quicker, still remembering Molly’s dramatic visit from the day before. “It… it really isn’t. What about John?” Sherlock asks sharply when he walks into the kitchen. 

__

“I was talking to Molly, and she mentioned something about you breaking his bones...”

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“Are you here to warn me off? Take me to gaol?” 

__

His tone is listless. Sherlock just feels numb. Has John managed to turn another against him? Through Molly? He doesn’t have the energy or the desire to fight anymore. 

__

“Did you do it, Sherlock?” 

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“God, no!” Sherlock slumps into a chair, resting his forehead against the surface of the dining table. This is un-fucking-believable. “No, Greg –” He clenches his fist. “I can’t believe you asked  _ me  _ that!” He lets it all out, feeling like this is absolutely the last bloody straw he could take. “I did every goddamned thing for John. For his family. Only threw away my life for him. For his wife! Been his punching bag for his inability to deal with his own bloody problems! And you asked  _ me  _ if I broke his bones?! I am tired, Lestrade. I did all you asked of me all those years ago. To do good. The problem is that  _ you  _ never told me that people don’t like it when you go out of your way to save their lives. I am going to leave, Grant. If you want to prosecute me for something I did not do, go ahead. Take it up with Mycroft. You know where to find him. I am sure he will find me a nice lawyer.”

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“Sherlock.” Lestrade calls out when Sherlock turns around and heads for his bedroom. He sounds somewhat desperate. “Sherlock… Wait… You’ve… misunderstood me –” 

__

The door slams behind Sherlock. 

__

Sherlock finds himself on his knees and he starts packing. Throwing clothes and some of his other belongings haphazardly into his suitcase. He can’t stay here. There’s no peace to be found. Who knows what horrors await him next should he stay here! There has already been Molly. And now… his oldest supporter that isn’t his brother had gotten involved. Had seemingly picked a side. When he’s done, he strides out of his bedroom. 

__

Lestrade had already gone. 

__

Before leaving himself with his luggage, he gives a farewell wave to several of the bugs in the living room, knowing that Mycroft would see. One of the obvious bugs (a simple camera mounted on a wall) blinks twice in acknowledgement. 

__


End file.
